The boy in the silk shirt
by Ertal77
Summary: John Watson is the new chemistry teacher at Greenwood Secondary School. In this new facet of his life, he will find some unexpected issues, mainly coping with a genius pupil and a hideous crime.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror of his car before stepping out of it: nothing between his teeth, collar smoothed, no shaving foam or toothpaste stain at sight. Alright. He breathed deeply, grabbed his folder and proceeded to go inside the building his first day of job.

It was a chemistry teacher position at Greenwood Secondary School, and he would be teaching A-levels. Even though it was a temporary position, he would work from the beginning of the school year until July, with real chances of coming back again the next term. He had heard rather bad reviews of the school, but he still had plenty of hope for what Greenwood could do for his career. It was a good opportunity to return to a teaching position after his years in the army where, although he had been quite happy, he had little chance to rejoin. And after coming back he had been just jumping from job to job, usually at private practices, which left him bored and unsatisfied. Surely teaching chemistry was going to be more rewarding than taking care of colds and gastroenteritis. God, let it be better than that! He honestly didn't have a clue of what to try next if it wasn't.

The school ground was quite new, airy and spacious, and the building was painted in a light, soft yellow. Before the wide main doors, though, there was a flight of stairs. John was half tempted to go up the ramp for the disabled, but he reminded himself that he had left his cane at home for a reason. He licked his lips thoroughly and ascended the stairs. They weren't more than ten steps, but high nonetheless, and by the time John was at last in front of the doors, his face blank, the pain on his thigh was sending him peaks of agony. He passed through the doors as fast as possible, conscious not to hinder the flow of students that were coming in and advancing him, but he did stop once inside, trying not to limp while he leaned against the wall, slightly next to the door. In order to mask his pain under a casual behaviour, he opened his folder and consulted the building layout he had printed from the school webpage the previous day. The Head Teacher's office was on the left of the main reception, and that was just in front of him, at the other side of the hall. He only had to try to relax his thigh for a moment, and he would be ready to introduce himself to the Head teacher and get stuck in with his first class. He watched the kids for a moment, noting, amused, how the wide, baggy jeans, longish hair and cardigans of his own _grunge_ times at Secondary school had turned into an ocean of chequered shirts, colourful t-shirts and _Converse_s. The younger students, still in their grey and navy blue uniform, looked at the sixth forms with envy, not noticing that what their elder peers wore was as good as a uniform, he thought, chuckling; all but one of the boys seemed to dress in the same way.

The discordant note caught his attention, a vague blur of movement in the corner of the eye. The boy wore black jeans, pointed boots and… was it a _silk_ shirt? He could imagine pretty well the kind of nice epithets his peers would have thrown at him in his days, and things couldn't be that different nowadays… _Well spotted, John_, he thought, as three boys approached the first one and cornered him behind the stairs. John counted up to three. The boy surely would come out now, running perhaps. _4. 5._ John moved forward, his pain momentarily forgotten. Two steps more, and he could see the books the boy was carrying, lying on the floor. _Shit_.

The scene under the stairs wasn't unfamiliar to John, sadly. He was glad he had never been a participant, nor in his student times neither in the army, but it was hardly the first time he had to witness or intervene to stop it. Two of the boys (seventeen? sixteen?) were holding the boy in the silk shirt by his arms, twisting them behind his upper body, and the other one (could he be eighteen already? He surely looked older, or perhaps just bigger and trashed) was punching him repeatedly on his stomach.

"Whatever is the matter?", he barked in full army-mode.

The bullies froze on the spot, and the punched boy dropped to the floor. The older one turned to look at John, and let his gaze go up and down, weighing him. _What a nerve_, John thought.

"Your names, boys", he ordered, readying pen and notebook.

The main bully spat to the floor, next to his own _Converse_ clad foot.

"Adrian. Smith."

The other two boys mumbled two full names after him. John wrote them down, and then addressed the boy on the floor.

"Are these their true names?"

'Adrian' kicked the boy on the ribs. The poor lad panted and tried again to, at least, get on his knees.

"Oi! Stop that!", John shouted. "You don't have to say anything; I'm sure every teacher knows them. Now go to your classroom, you will get news of your punishment by the end of the day."

The two boys who were holding the other ran away, but the bigger one stood tall in front of John.

"And who are you, by the way?"

"John Watson. _Captain_ John Watson, and now disappear!"

The boy addressed him a lopsided grin and went to join his friends. _Oh, yes, it's a fantastic school, no doubt!_, John thought. He turned his focus to the boy still kneeling on the floor. He reached to help him stand, but he shook off his hand and stood up on his own. Now that he could observe him, John realised that the boy was, in fact, taller than him. He was on the thinner side, but his shoulders were wide and his hands were big, so John decided the boy would definitely survive sixth form and University, bullies or not.

"Are you alright?"

The boy just raised his face and looked at John with disgust.

"OK, you are not, don't give me that look. Do you want me to accompany you to the nurse?"

"That won't be necessary", he answered, with a voice way deeper than John would have expected from a teenager. "I'm going to be late to the first class".

And with that, he started walking, heading for the classrooms. John considered for a moment insisting again, but it was indeed a bit late, and he still had to introduce himself to the Head teacher before the lessons.

Five minutes later, he stepped in the first classroom of his schedule. The Head Teacher had been busy, but the deputy heads had been really nice. She had given him his timetable for the term, listened to his story about the bullies and promised she would give them detention (as he expected, the description of the boys rang a bell at once). So he was feeling quite confident when he came in the classroom and felt thirty pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him. It was the first day of the school year, and everybody was focused in finding new faces; he was quite sure that he would have had less impact in the class if he had arrived once the year had already started. He placed his folder on the desk, turned the laptop on and took a flash drive out his trousers pocket. He had prepared a powerpoint presentation with the scheduling of the course, but before, while the laptop warmed up, he fiddled with the registers and tried to find the right one. Two girls on the first row giggled and pointed out one of the papers… one that he had already put aside, thinking it belonged to another group. He was _almost_ sure he avoided blushing, but he couldn't be a hundred per cent certain (_damned fair skin_!). He thanked the girls and started roll-call. It took him a full minute, his focus completely set in trying to remember faces linked to names, to acknowledge a known face on the second row, sitting next to the racks and the door, and opposite to the windows. The boy in the silk shirt.

He was running his hand through his short dark curls, looking bored and completely oblivious to his presence. No bruises on his face, at least, so he could just pretend nothing had happened. John called his name: _Sherlock Holmes_. God, he didn't even need that shirt and his spotless look to ask for bully attention… He was sentenced at birth. The boy raised his hand, frowning, and John tried not to pay more attention to him than to the rest of students for the rest of the lesson. He was completely silent, anyway, never losing that air of condescending boredom. At the end of the class, however, when most of the students headed for the corridor, he stayed, taking out his mobile phone and starting to type really fast into it. John approached him. Sherlock Holmes ignored his presence. John coughed lightly. A pair of grey eyes darted up to meet his.

"Yes, what?", the boy asked.

"I just wanted to ask you if you are feeling better", John said, quietly. Nobody seemed to be eavesdropping them, anyway. Holmes nodded and focused again in his phone. John added, "The Head Teacher has assured me they will get detention today."

"Fine".

"I hope it is. Look, if there's something else I can do to help…"

"I said 'fine', and I'm fine. Go back to your work, Doc."

John froze all of a sudden. Holmes got up in a swift and smooth twirl and left the room. John followed him remarkably more slowly and clumsily, suddenly envying all that youthful energy. The army had kept all of his, it seemed. The corridor was packed with students and Holmes was nowhere to be seen, so he had to keep for himself the question that lingered in his tongue. _What a curious kid_.

The rest of the day went by uneventful: the students were quite nice, even though his favourite group was, in fact, the A-level one from the first morning period. It had the usual noisy clique in the back rows, but also some nice students on the front one: intelligent, witty and funny. Not many, of course, just the two girls and one boy, but they made it worth it. And he was still wondering how Holmes knew he was a doctor when he finally ended the day's lessons and headed for the teachers parking lot. He definitely would ask the next day he saw the kid. He sat inside his car, threw his now thick folder on the other seat and sighed. The pain in his leg had abated during the first lesson, and never came back in full. He was quite happy with the outcome of the day: new acquaintances, the reassurance of a well paid job for a whole year, that warm feeling inside his chest that always came from feeling useful… Then his gaze caught a drawing beside the front doors, on the yellowish wall, and he would swear it wasn't there that morning. He got out of the car to look better at it, and then grimaced.

The drawing was a comic-like man with a huge phallus, almost bigger than the figure, and upon it the letters said: "JOHN WATSON IS A PRICK".

* * *

On Tuesday and Wednesday he ran a written test through his groups, in order to check if their knowledge level was better than their behavioural one. He had each group twice a week, and then one lab hour with half groups weekly. He intended to pair the students for the lab according to the results on the test. Tuesday's results were rather disappointing; he complained in the cafeteria at lunch time. Mike Stamford shrugged and then uttered one of his laughs that sounded suspiciously like a bark. John couldn't help smiling at him. He had been gladly surprised to find out that Mike was also teaching at Greenwood: they happened to meet at Barts, during their first two years of University, but after that the two of them chose different subjects and lost track of each other. Mike had been shocked when he heard that John joined the army the year after they finished at Barts.

"So that's where you were hidden… I thought you were going to teach? What happened?"

"Yeah, I tried for a few months…", John nodded.

And he changed topics quickly. Mike had enough insight to drop the topic and not ask again. John couldn't remember much of their relationship at Barts, but he did remember fondly easy conversations at the students' canteen and Mike's warm and contagious laugh.

On Wednesday he had again his favourite group, on the second period. He was looking forward to the results of his test; he was quite sure that half the group, at the very least, would get much better marks than his two Tuesday's groups.

"This is not an exam, so you can relax, guys… It's only a tool for me to know what level we are starting the year with. This doesn't mean you can't try to impress me, of course."

The two girls in the front row giggled, as always. _Marcie and Nell_, John remembered easily. _And Rick by their side_. Rick didn't giggle, but a wide and satisfied smile spread by his face, clearly eager to impress the teacher. _Good_, John thought winking at them and returning the smile. He strolled along the aisles the first minutes, checking that everybody understood the questions, and then sat down behind his desk and turned the laptop on. He had at least thirty minutes until the first students started to finish the test. To his surprise, before he could even enter his email account, a last racking gaze across the classroom showed him that Sherlock Holmes had already finished. He got up and approached the boy (who was wearing another shirt today; not a silk one, but a crisp and smart black one. _Someone should tell him there's not a "the most elegant student" competition; this is secondary school, boy: this is "wear exactly what the other ones wear or you are fucked", Mr. Sherlock Holmes_). John smiled and peeked down to Holmes' test: it was completed. The boy looked bored again, his eyes fixed absently at somewhere on the wall.

"Have you finished, Sherlock? Do you want to check it a last time?"

The boy shook his head. He didn't seem to be avoiding John's eyes, just too uninterested to look at him. John took the test and told Sherlock he could read or work on another subject while his mates finished their task. The boy took out his mobile and a book, and John sat down again and marked the test. He marked it twice, in fact. He glanced up the kid again: Sherlock was concentrated on his book. The rest of the students were still working on their test, some of them struggling and leaving a good amount of questions in blank. John focused again on the test he had in front of him. It was impossible. All the questions were right. It was a perfect test. Some of the questions were a tad too difficult on purpose, to highlight the few students who could be interested in studying chemistry at University level (there had been none in Tuesday's groups). Sherlock Holmes, that odd kid who dressed like a fucking fashion shop assistant, had even answered those questions right, and he had done it in record time. Even his three favourite students hadn't finished yet, eager to impress him as they were. And there was no way he could have cheated on the test. John rubbed his eyes, blinked and licked his lips. His stay at Greenwood had turned more interesting all of a sudden.

He commented his discovery at lunch time. Mike Stamford smiled at hearing the name.

"Ah, yes, Sherlock Holmes. I had him two years ago. He's brilliant, that kid. But irregular, too: I had real problems to make him pass the subject, mind you".

"How come?", John asked, frowning.

"He often failed to hand the tasks in, or left the lab practices unfinished… And surely you have noticed he doesn't get along well with the rest of the group… OK, OK, I know that's a big understatement… Well, you can imagine how the lab work in pairs went: sometimes he didn't turn up, or refused to work with his partner. So in the end I always had a brilliant exam, but also a lot of fail marks."

"But you gave him a pass, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course I did. I know some colleagues wouldn't agree with me, but sod them! I'm a veteran here; I can afford to be too lenient on occasions. But I wouldn't have done it if I had known how he would turn out the next year… I honestly didn't see it coming!"

The young woman who was sitting next to him elbowed Mike, hard. The plump man just laughed, and John had to settle for looking puzzled from one to the other. The woman sighed.

"You could just leave me out of this, Mike."

"But John is new and deserves to know!"

"Hey, I'm still here, you know?", John joked, following Mike's light tone. The woman looked slightly annoyed, but John was sure Mike would win her with no effort, his laugh was that kind of contagious. "What's the matter with that kid? Is he a future chemist or what?"

"I would bet for 'or what'", Mike answered.

"Oh, he's not like that, Mike, don't be unfair!", the girl exclaimed.

"So you still defend him, hmmmm? Interesting. I knew you were fond of him, Molly, but still?"

The young woman –Molly- blushed furiously. John raised his hand, about to ask Mike to leave her alone, for God's sake, but she gave in and started to explain herself.

"I reacted exactly the same way as John: Sherlock Holmes is brilliant, full stop. The only problem was that, once he noticed my reaction, he started to talk me into trying to have full access to the lab, at lunch time and free periods."

John frowned.

"What for?"

"He didn't steal anything, if that's what you are thinking", Molly hurried to say. "He just wanted to do his own lab practises. What we did in the classroom was too basic and boring to him."

"Oh, perhaps not stealing, but he did use a lot of components", Mike added, "and he managed to cause a couple to explosions."

"One fire and one explosion", Molly corrected. "And it wasn't on purpose".

"Of course it wasn't on purpose! But the equipment was damaged all the same, and he was alone in the lab out of lesson hours, so you can imagine who the Head Teacher blamed."

Molly avoided everyone's eyes, obviously embarrassed.

"And that's not the worst", Mike added. "For me, the worst was the way he manipulated Molly to get what he wanted, you should have seen him. He seemed another person: you see him so awkward and shy, always with that sad look around him, and then you put him in front of someone he can manipulate, and he turns into a complete bastard."

"Mike!", Molly shushed, still blushing.

"No, sorry, Molly, but that's the right word. I almost pitied him in my classroom, but when I saw him clearly flirting at you to get the lab… I don't know, I didn't expect that of him, it was disappointing."

John tried to add all that information to his mental image of Sherlock Holmes (clever, bored, bullied, lonely). It was a bit too much. After a moment, when Molly berated Mike lightly and then both of them joked and things seemed to calm down, John tried to resume the issue:

"So. Then. What works with Sherlock Holmes is trying to avoid him getting bored, but cutting him short if he tries to exceed the limits, is that all?"

Mike grinned; Molly acquiesced.

"Good summary, yes!"

* * *

Thursday, last period: lab hour with Sherlock Holmes half group. John put the students in pairs, held his ground against the complaints and didn't allow any changes to the disposition he had planned. Thank God the group was odd numbers; this way no one could complain when everybody was finally sitting down with a partner, with the exception of Sherlock. The tall boy had been leaning against the wall with his usual bored look during the entire partner's sorting, but now he had a slightly puzzled expression on his face. John pointed a table in a corner, and Sherlock grabbed his schoolbag and sat down there. The worksheets John had prepared were delivered to all the students; he gave all the possible explanations and did one exercise on the blackboard, as an example. When the teenagers finally set to work, he approached Sherlock and handed him another worksheet.

"Forget that one, this is yours."

The boy's cat-like eyes stared at John (curiously, his eyes seemed deep blue that morning; John would have sworn they were grey the other day). Amused, John explained him his tasks. Sherlock's gaze swept quickly the paper and came back to his teacher's face.

"What do I owe this treatment of favour?", Sherlock asked, quietly. The other students looked at them suspiciously, but soon they were all concentrated in their set of experiments.

"Your test outcome was brilliant, Sherlock". John decided that avoiding mentioning anything the other teachers had said about him was only for the best. "Are you going to study Chemistry at Uni?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes.

"I still don't know. Perhaps."

"Good. Anyway, the experiments I had prepared for the classroom were too easy for you, so I hope these ones turn out more interesting."

John noticed the boy's pale cheeks were quite red, and when he just nodded, instead of saying "thank you", John was content enough and went to check the rest of the group. He stopped by every pair of partners, answering questions or just watching. Sherlock didn't call him for help in the whole hour. He didn't look bored, either. When at the end of the lesson he handed his worksheet out, John wasn't surprised at all to find out all the exercises were right again.

September and October passed by with the new dynamics in John's schedule: he taught his four groups in the morning, had lunch almost everyday with Mike and Molly in the school's cafeteria, came back home and marked his pupils' worksheets, prepared his lessons, printed another worksheet for next day from a school publishing website, and then took out his Chemistry books from Uni to prepare Sherlock's worksheet. It was oddly fun: every time he chose an exercise, he could picture in his mind the satisfied smirk of the boy when he finished it that week. Besides, Sherlock's attitude at the rest of his lessons had changed. He wasn't apathetic or looked bored anymore; he always paid attention to the explanations and raised his hand to ask questions. That was beginning to be an entirely different issue, in fact. His questions were usually too advanced for their level, and even his mates in the first row growled quietly every time Sherlock raised his hand. Marcie and Nell had provided a new set of gossips about Sherlock and his last years at Greenwood, and even though John just laughed a bit and begged them to please stop talking behind the back of other people, he had trouble to accommodate all those stories to the very detailed mental frame he had about a certain Sherlock Holmes. He refused to believe any of them and decided to forget them as soon as possible (well, with the obvious exception of the lab explosion last year; that story was too funny to forget. He should try to get it explained by Sherlock himself, so it wouldn't be a gossip any more). In fact, the boy was more talkative now, and he often came nearer his desk at the end of the lessons to share his thoughts about something that John had said or the outcome of an exercise. Would it have been any other student, John would feel slightly annoyed, but Sherlock was so enthusiastic and lively when talking about chemistry, that John couldn't help smiling. The change in that boy! John felt so proud, of Sherlock because of his improvement and of himself, of course. His peers wouldn't like Sherlock better now, but at least the teenager looked happy and motivated instead of bored and absent.

Sherlock soon started to stay a little longer after their lab sessions, while John tidied up and put everything away; it was their last period before lunch time, after all, so five minutes more were a trifle. But he had Mike and Molly's warning in mind. Sherlock still hadn't tried to ask for extra time at the lab, and John always checked the key twice when he was around. If something like what happened to Molly would happen to him, he would be fired in a snap, so, clever and lonely or not, John would make sure that Sherlock stayed in his place.

By the beginning of November, though, the five extra minutes had turned into twenty, John noticed with dismay. Sherlock usually worked five minutes more in an additional exercise, then helped John to tidy up and after that they just talked lively. Sherlock's enthusiasm was contagious, John admitted. But Mike had asked him twice what was delaying him at lunch time, and then John had had to sigh. He should tell Sherlock to finish in time and leave their conversations to the classroom. He would tell him that Thursday.

But when John looked at Sherlock that morning, his five extra minutes long exceeded, the teenager, aware of John's eyes on him, raised his gaze to look at him and blushed. His eyes looked greenish that day, so bright on his pale and strange features. John had needed a couple of weeks to get used to that angular and unusual face, and still had no idea if a woman would catalogue Sherlock as "attractive" or "ugly". But those eyes were truly remarkable. And why was he blushing? The boy sometimes blushed when he noticed John was looking at him, and always when John told him how brilliant and clever he was. A rather odd reaction, John thought, given that Sherlock was very aware of his cleverness and wasn't shy at all.

"Sherlock", he said after clearing his throat. The boy's eyes were piercing him, making him feel uncomfortable, but he didn't avoid Sherlock's stare. "I think we should talk about something."

The teenager lowered his eyes all of a sudden, and his blush turned scarlet.

"Nothing good has ever come out from a conversation beginning with those words", Sherlock whispered.

John giggled, feeling a bit dumb.

"Yes, you are right: bad phrasing. Anyway, the talking bit has to be done."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be that obvious."

Sherlock got up, his gaze still down, and hastened to pack his things. John frowned.

"What? Sorry, I don't know what you mean. I just think you spend too much extra time in the lab. Five minutes more is okay, but lately we always finish too late. You need that time to have lunch, and besides, you should spend your time with people your age…"

John's train of thought derailed at the sight of the disgusted expression on Sherlock's face. John recognised it: it was the same look he wore that first day, when those bullies hurt him and John asked him, rather foolishly, if he was alright.

"What's wrong now?", John asked, nervous. "Hey, don't look at me that way!"

"You can't possibly be _that_ oblivious, can you?", the boy almost spat.

"I still have no idea what you are talking about. Do you mind being a bit more specific?"

Sherlock looked definitely angry now. He dropped his schoolbag again and faced John, suddenly tall and intimidating in front of his teacher.

"OK, Doc. Why do you think I stay longer, please tell me?"

"Ah… You like to spend time in the lab."

"Right. But I usually enjoy more of my lab time when I'm alone in it, as I'm sure Molly Hooper has told you. Now it's you who is making faces, John."

"…So you knew I have heard stories about you, alright. Does it have something to do with your sudden anger?"

Sherlock made a step forward. John gulped; Sherlock was already looming over him.

"Perhaps", the boy whispered softly. "What else have you heard?"

John raised his chin and kept his eyes on Sherlock's, refusing to feel intimidated.

"I have forgotten everything else. The explosion story was too funny, sorry, that one was impossible to forget. Did you really bring a _cat_ to the lab?"

An involuntary half smile tugged the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He turned serious at once, but leaned back, giving John space, and sighed. He went back to pick up his schoolbag.

"It wasn't only to spend time at the lab, John; it was spending it with you."

The words were muttered so quietly that John, at first, thought he had imagined them. But no. They had been said, and now he could almost see them, as a solid presence, floating between them. Sherlock adjusted his bag on his back, avoiding John's eyes, quiet, and John knew he was waiting for some kind of response on his part, but after the momentary shock there came Mike and Molly's warning: Sherlock had flirted with Molly last year, only to manipulate her. Other bits of forgotten information came back to his mind, stories that made sense to the fact that Sherlock was now flirting with _him_, a male. To his own surprise, John felt more confused than angered.

"Sherlock", he said as calm as he could, "I'm not Molly Hooper."

The boy glared at him.

"That's for sure", Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "She would never mistake a real feeling for a fake one. Last year she was always aware that I had no real interest in her, and that I was just trying to be nice. I don't think she told you otherwise."

John nodded.

"True. But I still don't understand what you mean."

"What do you want, John? A love letter? God, and I thought I was being too obvious!"

It was John's turn to feel uncomfortable and take refuge in simple tidying up tasks. He refused to look at the boy while he started to pack his things.

"So it's for the best if we stop to spend more time than the strictly necessary together, then. From now on, there won't be more "extra five minutes", but don't worry: you will have your customised worksheets as usual, and I'm sure everything will be back to normal in a few days."

"So that's all?"

John felt Sherlock's looming presence again, mere inches from him. He sighed; that was the most awkward situation he could ever imagine with a pupil.

"John… Please, look at me." He did; Sherlock looked tall and strong, not a kid but a grown up man, and his whole body exhaled intensity. His bright green eyes pinned John, he barely dared to breath; and when he started talking again the deep mumble seemed to echo inside John's bones. "I know you are as lonely as I am: you don't have a woman back at home, and even though you are always friendly, you don't let others enter your personal space easily. I bet you can count your friends with the fingers of one hand. I can see a place for me there. You are already making exceptions for me, in every aspect, not just the worksheets or letting me work on my own."

John shook his head and stepped backwards using all his willpower.

"Stop, please… Sherlock, look, it's not that I'm not interested in you: you are brilliant, and I'm proud of you, really. But I'm your teacher, we can't have a real friendly relationship. Besides, I'm not interested in men, and I'm twelve years your senior, and we don't really know each other… Do I have to go on?"

Sherlock gave him what can only be called a "winning grin".

"You were born in the North, not in the country and not in a big town. You are not in touch with your parents; perhaps they are dead, or perhaps they didn't approve of your joining the army. You have one younger sister, but you are not very close, because you never speak of her. You studied Medicine at St. Bartholomew, with Mike Stamford, but instead of working as a doctor or as a teacher, you opted by army doctor. You got shot, in your shoulder, but you have a psychosomatic pain in your leg that makes you limp slightly. You forget that pain during the lessons, so it's boredom and inactivity what causes it. I bet you miss the war, the risk. You are an action man, John, you are not made to live an average life and teaching will only help you for a while, and only moderately. In a couple of months, when the novelty has worn out, you will limp again. _Do I have to go on_?"

The above tirade was whispered without a pause to breath, and if Sherlock's intensity had been uncomfortable some minutes before, now it was overwhelming. John gulped.

"Sherlock. Please go out. Now."

The boy growled. He didn't say anything else, but turned towards John in the door, and there were only hurt feelings on his face. When he finally closed the door behind him, John let himself drop on his chair. He hid his face in his hands, trying to decide how he felt. Angry? Yes. He was angry, of course. All was going so smoothly, he went to work every day feeling almost happy, for the first time since his return, and now it was all wrong again. Annoyed? Yes, that too. His first impression of the boy was the good one, Sherlock was odd. He was observant, but that amount of data about him? What had he done, follow him? Search his bag and his pockets? What face would he possibly make next Monday? He would have to pretend nothing was wrong in front of the rest of the group. Was Sherlock going to pretend, too, or would he be acting as a spoiled child who was refused to have his favourite toy? Confused? Yes. How didn't he notice Sherlock's attitude towards him? Was he pretending after all, and this was Molly Hooper's second part? Or was it real? Was Sherlock besotted with him? Why, why on Earth with him? A brilliant, attractive (_yes, decidedly attractive_) teenager, what the hell would he want to do with a twenty-nine year old ex-army doctor? A limping, average, boring, lonely ex-army doctor, who if Sherlock was right (_and when wasn't he right_?), would be using a cane again after Christmas.

Suddenly, the door opened again, and Sherlock's face appeared at the frame. John felt tired, very, very tired.

"Sherlock, please, we can talk again next Monday if you want…"

The look on Sherlock's face made him stop. Alarm was clearly shown in all his features.

"It's not about me, John. Come along, quickly!"

The doctor took his bag and followed Sherlock, almost running. They went down a flight of stairs, and then Sherlock stopped and approached, slowly, the empty space behind the stairs, a spot very similar to the one John had seen him the first time. And, the same as that time, now the space wasn't really empty, as John realised. A girl was sitting on the floor, her face on her knees, clearly sobbing.

"Claire, I've brought Professor Watson; he is a doctor". Sherlock's voice was careful and quiet, and he stood some feet away from the girl.

The girl raised her face, covered in tears, and John recognised her: she was in Sherlock's group.

"Claire, calm down. Please, tell me what happened."

The girl hiccoughed, contorting her features, and instead of answering, she opened her legs, separating her knees, which had previously been glued together. Her skirt was a bit torn, and John's heart skipped a beat when he saw the stream of blood running down her thighs and pooling on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock to phone the police and an ambulance, but he already heard the boy taking out his mobile phone and doing it. John licked his lips, feeling completely lost. It was the first time he had to face a rape victim.

"Claire, do you think you can stand up? I will help you walk to the nurse's office. There you'll be able to lie down, and rest for a while, until the police arrive."

The girls whined, and her sobs turned more hysterical.

"I don't want to see the police, this is so embarrassing! I don't want everybody knowing it."

"Claire, you were attacked: there's no shame in that. We must catch the person who did it, and any help from your part will lead to put that person in jail. I assure you, no one in the school will laugh. If we don't say anything, it could happen again, to other girl, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that."

The girl seemed to calm down a bit and finally nodded. She had stopped crying, but her face was a mess of black rimmel and tears, and her bangs were half glued to her wet cheeks. John reached for her, and Claire allowed him to help her stand up. They started to walk slowly, taking the stairs one by one. It was obvious that the girl felt dizzy and weak. After some painfully slow minutes going downstairs and walking along the empty ground floor corridor in complete silence, Sherlock's strong steps ran towards them.

"The police will be here in five minutes, and an ambulance is coming as well" the boy explained.

The nurse office was closed: absolutely everybody seemed to be at home or at the cafeteria. Luckily, the general key also opened that door, so John opened it with his key and the three of them stepped in. They helped Claire to lie on the stretcher. The girl still looked dizzy and about to cry; John thought of sending Sherlock to find the Head Teacher or the Deputy Heads, as they were most surely at the cafeteria, but instead he found himself asking Claire:

"Could you see the face of your attacker?"

The girls shook his head.

"He surprised me from behind" she explained with a tiny voice that had nothing to do with her usual cheerful self. "I had come back to our classroom to look for my homework: I wanted to do it with Tina during lunch time. Tina said she would wait for me outside, on our bench. I asked for the key at reception, I went up, grabbed my book and my notebook, ran downstairs again, and when I was almost at the first floor landing someone pushed me to the floor. I fell down on my face. I swear at first I thought it was Tina, and I was about to shout at her, really mad, when a rough, big hand covered my mouth. Christ, it almost covered my nose, too! Then I got scared. I tried to bit that hand, but then he knocked me on the head, hard. I don't think I lost consciousness then, but I felt dizzy and confused for a while. Well, until I felt the pain, of course, that woke me up completely. I've… I've never done that before. It was awful. It was like having an animal ripping me in pieces!"

At that the sobbing returned. John reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"The police will find him, Claire. Hmmm… Could you sit up a bit? I'll put a cushion under your shoulders. I would like to take a look at your head. Please don't fall asleep, not until they have observed your concussion at the hospital, OK?"

The girl nodded. _She seems so small and young_, John thought. _What a beast!_ His stomach churned and he realised he was opening and fisting his hands; he remembered well that gesture from his army times. His body was getting ready for battle. Only that this time there wasn't any battle, only impotence and restrained rage.

"What else do you remember of him?"

Sherlock's voice came from his back; he had almost forgotten the boy was still there. He was going to tell him to leave the poor girl alone, but Sherlock was quicker, and John's words died in his mouth.

"I'm sorry to bother you in this pitiful situation, Claire" the boy said, "but we have to rule out as many people as we can, and we must do it quickly. He is out there, perhaps having lunch at the cafeteria as calm and happy as if anything had happen. Please, make an effort."

The girl frowned, still hiccupping.

"I couldn't see him."

"But you said his hands were big… What else? What did he smell of? What was his voice like?"

"Sherlock, that's a bit too much…" John tried to intervene.

_I should be phoning her parents, locating the Head Teacher… Sherlock shouldn't even be here_. But the girl considered the questions for a moment and, instead of bursting into tears as John had feared, she tried to actually answer, her voice still hesitant and small.

"No especial smell. A light sweat, but I can't be sure. He had something over his mouth, a jumper perhaps, but that couldn't disguise he had a deep voice."

"As deep as Sherlock's?" John couldn't help to ask.

Sherlock glared at him.

"I don't smell of sweat, John. Never."

_Only he could feel insulted by that_, John thought, almost amused. But the girl had opened her eyes wide with horror, so John hurried to assure her Sherlock had been with him when the attack took place.

"But it's true that the attacker had a deep voice", Sherlock followed, unrelenting, pacing by the small room and turning to look at John, "like me, as it seems to happen, and he is obviously strong, tall and with big hands."

"Your description, again". Sherlock stopped his pacing to glare dangerously to John, so he added: "But you were in the lab with me, so you are out of suspicion."

"Thank God for that" Sherlock whispered. He faced the girl again. She looked a bit afraid of them now (_the knowledge that any man in the school, including us, could be her rapist might have just landed on her, poor girl_, John thought). "Anything else? Did you see his hands? Was he wearing any ring, did he have a mole, callus?"

"I couldn't really look at them! But they were rough, so yes, he had callus."

The girl's eyes went at once to Sherlock's hands. He raised his hands, palms up, and showed them to her: they were soft and white, without any trace of roughness. Claire raised his gaze again to Sherlock's face, and John could see a silent "_thank you_" there. He was tempted to show his palms, too, but she didn't seem to need it. Sherlock started again to pace, joining his hands in front of his face, and talked aloud for himself.

"So we can rule out all the teachers over forty; not one of the elder teachers is fond of racket sports or gardening. We can discard as well all the younger students, because our man has already changed his voice. Regarding the height and the physical force, the staff suspect list reduces considerably…"

"What? How…?" John tried to react, open-mouthed.

But then the door opened, and a man and a woman in blue police uniform stepped in, showing their badges. The policeman asked them to follow him out the room, what they did, and the female officer stayed in the nurse room with Claire. Once outside, the officer (Sergeant Gregson, as he introduced himself) asked them to explain what had happened. He listened carefully to them, but when Sherlock started to give him the details he had deduced from Claire's explanations, the man raised his hand and made him stop.

"That would be all. Except I will need to talk to the Head Teacher. Any idea of where they might be?"

John led him to the cafeteria; Sherlock tagged along them, two steps behind. The Deputy Heads was there; the woman jumped as soon as she saw the man in the uniform. She approached them with a questioning look directed to John, and her face turned ash grey when the cop started to explain what had happened. She almost ran towards the main corridor, leaving John and Sherlock standing at the door. The cop took his leave with a curt nod to John and followed her. John sighed and turned to look at Sherlock; he couldn't read his expression, but he bet Sherlock was feeling rather annoyed right now: Sergeant Gregson shouldn't have ignored him.

"You still have half an hour to have lunch", he told the teenager. "If we hurry up, there's that Chinese take-away in the corner."

Sherlock nodded absently and followed him out.

The neighbourhood, like most of Greater London, was shaped as a main street, with almost all the shops and restaurants and traffic, and a lot of quiet streets around it, mostly terraced houses with a solitary shop or pub now and then. Greenwood was in one of the furthest corners of the neighbourhood, so all the variety available for lunch was the school cafeteria or a greasy Chinese take-away. John usually sat at the teacher's table and had a salad or a soup and a sandwich, something easy. But the day had been unusually stressing, his favourite pupil looked battered, and his body was demanding something heavy and spicy. And a beer. And to celebrate he was crossing a couple of boundaries, he bought one beer for Sherlock, too. The boy looked at him confused, and said a feeble thank you, but pocketed the beer without opening it. They sat down on a bench, in a green patch just out of the school ground.

"What about what you said before, not spending more time with you?" Sherlock asked, suspicious, as soon as they settled down with their food boxes.

"Well, what happened just after that changed the circumstances a bit, don't you think? I can make an exception". John paused to munch his noodles. Once he swallowed, he added: "Besides, I wanted to talk with you. How did you know all those details?"

Sherlock frowned, pausing his loaded sticks on their way to his mouth.

"Which ones? About you, or about the rapist?"

"They were both quite amazing. Start with mine."

"Ah, OK. Middle sized town of origin: your style of clothing, just that. Your family: you never talk about them. You have explained some army and uni stories in the classrooms, but you have never mentioned your family. You have a photo of your sister inside your wallet, though."

"How have you seen it? And hey, it could have been my girlfriend!"

"I saw it one day you were asking for a photocopy of a personal document in reception. And she looked very alike you. You don't have anyone at home, because you always have lunch in the school, even though you don't have lessons in the afternoon. The rest was just making deductions out of the gathered data. Was it all spot on?"

John sighed.

"Almost."

Sherlock eyebrows lowered.

"Oh. Can you tell me what did I read wrong?"

"My parents are alive, and they weren't disappointed when I joined the army. Well, not much."

"Then?"

"It's personal."

Sherlock looked frustrated, but said nothing. He focused on his food for a couple of minutes.

"You did get angry when I told you my deductions about you", he whispered at last.

John considered that while he munched.

"I wasn't angry about that, no, I don't think so. But it was too much. I'm sorry, I should have been more patient, handle it better."

Sherlock's mouth tightened and he set his eyes on his wooden sticks again.

"Don't worry, it's hardly the first time I'm being rejected" he said quietly.

John looked at him, feeling a pang of regret.

"Then clearly you are always asking the wrong person, Sherlock. I'm sure you will find soon someone who loves you; you deserve it."

Sherlock stood up and strode fast towards the bin, where he tossed the remains of his lunch and the packages. John joined him and felt bad at seeing the deep frown still set between his pupil's eyes. He wanted to comfort him, but he also needed a bit of space between them.

"Tell me about your other deductions", he asked to change the topic. They only had two minutes left anyway; the afternoon periods were about to start.

It seemed to work: Sherlock accompanied John to his car while he explained his thoughts.

"I think it's quite clear: the attacker had to be tall to be able to immobilise Claire. She is five foot four; more or less like you, right? The position he had her needed some extra inches to work, and a considerable strength. We can cross out all the men below five feet nine, I would say. Claire didn't smell tobacco, so he's not a smoker, or his clothes would have reeked of it. The voice is good evidence, too. And he plays lacrosse, cricket, tennis or other sport that uses a racket or a stick. The other option is that he does some kind of handy work. I could print a copy of the group registers and just cross all the discarded students off. I bet we would end with a list of ten suspects at most."

John couldn't close his mouth, shocked.

"But that's fantastic! Sherlock, I thought you were brilliant, but I had no idea. You are truly a genius!"

Sherlock looked down and tried to hide a smile, blushing. John couldn't help to laugh. But then the school bell chimed.

"Oh, God, you are going to be late!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't mind."

"But I do! Please go! We'll talk next Monday. Do that list!"

The boy nodded and started to walk towards the building. He turned to look at John, already inside his car.

"See you on Monday, Doc."

In fact, they met the next day, although they hadn't chemistry on Fridays. When John arrived to Greenwood, first hour in the morning, the incident was in everybody's mouth. He instinctively looked for Sherlock in the corridors; he saw him at the end of the second period, his dark curls and long trench coat were rather difficult to miss. The boy met his eyes and came closer.

"Did you made that list?" John asked him hurriedly.

"Yes, I did it" Sherlock said, annoyed. "I included the staff, and the outcome was a bit longer list of suspects, thirty-two in total".

"Thirty-two?" John smiled widely. He had no idea of the amount of students and teachers in Greenwood, but he was sure it might be around a thousand. Cutting it to only thirty-two looked incredible. "That's impressive, Sherlock!"

"But."

"Oh, what's the but?"

"The Head Teacher has refused to see me or even taking the list. No one takes me seriously!"

The boy looked angry and completely frustrated. John sighed, feeling sorry for him.

"Give me the list, I will make sure he gets it and understands its importance."

Without a word, Sherlock opened his schoolbag and took a plastic folder. He gave it to John, attempting a smile. The teacher smiled him back, trying to look reassuring.

He accomplished the first part of what he had promised to Sherlock, talking to the Head Teacher and handing him the list, but he wasn't so successful with the second part: the balding man only took a quick glance to the list, unimpressed, and hummed uncommitted.

"This list can be useful for the police", John insisted.

"They already have our pupils' list, John. I'm sure Sergeant Gregson can arrive to the right conclusions without the help of a sixteen year old boy. You shouldn't lead him on, John; it's not healthy for a teenager to obsess after gory crimes as this one. I know that Holmes kid is very clever. Perhaps you could suggest him to join our chess club? That's where he could be really useful. Tell him to leave this stuff to the police, would you? They are professionals, after all."

And that was all; the Head Teacher faked a tight smile and returned to his paper work. John didn't have any other option but leave the office.

The atmosphere at the school was slightly calmer after the weekend; but when John stepped in his first classroom, he found almost all the students gathered together around Rick. The group dispersed and started to sit down when they saw John, but Marcie exclaimed, joyfully:

"John! Come here, please! You know what? Rick's father has explained to him a lot of things about Claire's rape; he's assisting the Sergeant who is investigating the case!"

John noticed, concerned, that Claire hadn't come that day. Understandable, the girl needed a bit of rest at home until she felt calmer. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting on his usual spot, but he wasn't losing a word of the conversation.

"Yes, my father is just an officer, and he doesn't usually comment a word about his job, but he was worried because it has happened in my school and volunteered to help with the case", Rick explained, beaming. Although he wasn't shy, he wasn't very popular and it was not every day he could enjoy of the attention of the whole class. "They have been asking around all the staff during the weekend". John nodded; he had to explain again the entire incident to Gregson's assistant (perhaps he was Rick's father?) on Friday afternoon. "And last night they found their main suspect: Robson, the handyman!"

The chattering noise suddenly peeked, as all the students seemed to have something to comment about Robson, and all at once. John coughed and raised a bit his voice.

"Alright, guys! Please, sit in groups of four; we are doing the exercises on page 67. You must discuss them in group and come to only one outcome. Well reasoned, of course, not out of the blue."

The boys and girls whined, as every Monday morning, but they slowly started to move chairs and take their books out. John called Sherlock with a gesture and made him sit down with Rick and the girls. As soon as they were sat facing each other, Nell asked:

"They say Sherlock and you found the poor Claire, is it true?"

John nodded.

"My father says there was a lot of blood", Rick muttered.

The girls were horrified. _The Head had a point; they shouldn't know so many details, it's morbid_, John thought. But it was a bit late to worry about that anyway, the deed was done, and he could only be grateful that any other student was listening to them now.

"Not a lot, but there was blood, yes. It wasn't just sex without consent, it was an attack."

Nell and Marcie looked to each other with wide eyes.

"Thank God they have caught that man, then", Marcie said after a silence.

"About that… I don't think I have ever met Robson. Sherlock, was him in the list?"

All eight eyes turned to Sherlock, who nodded absently.

"I'm not a hundred per cent sure about the voice, though", the boy added. "Would you describe Robson's voice as deep?"

Rick and the girls seemed lost. At last Rick answered:

"I have never heard him, sorry. But what it's this about? What list?"

John explained Sherlock's deductions and work. The three of them were amazed and started to look at Sherlock with awe. He avoided looking to any of them, and when he finally raised his eyes from his book, he focused only in John.

"But that's amazing!" Nell exclaimed. "Is Scotland Yard using that list?"

"No, sadly the Head Teacher thought Sergeant Gregson doesn't need any help. Well, if Robson is the attacker, then it's all said and done, and we only can hope Claire comes back as soon as possible."

"What if not?" Rick asked.

John looked at him and sighed. That was the question.

"Do you know if Claire has received any threat? Any angry ex-boyfriend?" he asked.

Rick and the girls looked hesitant.

"I don't think so" Marcie answered, "she has never had a boyfriend."

"But she likes to flirt", Nell added. "Just… nothing serious, you know?"

"Has she rejected anyone recently?" Sherlock asked.

John gulped, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, but tried to keep a blank face.

"I don't know" Marcie said. "You? No? I will ask Tina, her best friend. Perhaps she knows."

Sherlock nodded.

"Hey, I'm not on that list, am I?" Rick asked Sherlock.

John almost laughed; Rick was shorter than him, and the only sport that he had ever practised was football… in videogames. Sherlock shook his head and met John's eyes. They both smiled.

"John, please?"

Someone needed him in another group, so John left them to their task.

As the week was passing, things started to calm down. Claire came back to school on Thursday. She was quiet and shy, far from her usual self, and stepped back every time someone tried to give her a comforting hug.

"I hope you are feeling better" John said, smiling forcefully and feeling terribly clumsy.

The girl just nodded and started to work.

At the end of the lesson, everybody tucked their equipment away quickly and ran to the cafeteria. Tina was already waiting for Claire out the door; she was going with her everywhere now, apparently, and the teachers allowed it. Good. John turned to Sherlock and saw him already tidying up his table; he felt slightly disappointed. The boy didn't look at him, but he was obviously conscious of John's eyes fixed on him. John noticed the boy's bangs were longer than at the beginning of the term, and his curls came over his eyes when he was looking down. Suddenly, Sherlock glanced at him sideways and John realised, a bit embarrassed, that he was staring; he tried to focus in tidying up his own desk. Sherlock stopped by him on his way out. John refused to comment on his going out on time; a wave goodbye would suffice.

"Robson hasn't been arrested yet" the boy said. "He is under surveillance, though, but I don't think he is our man."

John considered those words.

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. But somehow he doesn't fit."

"He was in the list."

"Yes, I know… I still don't know why, but I would say the attacker was a student, not a member of the staff."

John watched the way Sherlock's eyes twinkled when he talked; if Chemistry arose enthusiasm from the boy, discussing a crime enticed him even more. Sherlock suddenly frowned.

"You are smiling, why?" the boy asked him.

John chuckled, feeling a sudden rush of fondness towards him.

"Nothing. Have a good weekend, Sherlock."

The teenager nodded, suspicious, and went out the lab.


	3. Chapter 3

The next Monday, John told his classroom to group in fours again to finish last week's tasks, and he approached the front row group as soon as it was safe to do it without any other student eavesdropping.

"Have they arrested anyone?" he asked Rick, as quietly as he could.

The boy shook his head.

"Sadly, no. My father says they don't have enough evidence about Robson, and that he would end free of charges if he was to be sent to Court right now."

"I see", John sighed.

"Why did the Yard think he is the main suspect in the first place?" Sherlock whispered.

"He had been fined before for physical abuse to his girlfriend", Rick answered. "My father says it's the only thing they have found".

"No alibi and a violent background", Nell mumbled. "Well, it's something, but not enough. I think a student would fit better as the attacker."

Sherlock looked at her, surprised.

"Why do you say so?" he asked her.

Nell leaned forward, her head almost touching Marcie and Sherlock's foreheads, and adopted a conspiracy tone.

"I managed to speak with Tina. She was very reluctant; she seems to think Claire's attack was her fault, because she left her alone, and now she has turned extremely protective of her friend." Five pair of eyes turned to look surreptitiously to the victim, who was staring by the window while her group worked on the chemistry questions. "_But_, after some insisting, she told me she couldn't remember anyone Claire had rejected recently. The problem, as I see it, is that even though Claire never dates, she usually ends up snogging someone at every party. She never goes further, but perhaps some boy felt she was leading him on…"

"So it's definitely a student", Sherlock added, with bright eyes.

Nell smiled at him.

"Clearly. Claire wouldn't kiss or flirt with a handyman! Robson must be at least thirty!"

"Sssshh, guys, keep your voices low, please", John asked, worried. Some of the other students were starting to look at them.

He left the group and went to check the rest of the classroom. He kept an eye on Sherlock and the others, though, and was a bit surprised to notice that Nell and Sherlock were talking way more than usual. Talking _and giggling_. John turned his back to them, feeling confused. That was good, isn't it? That's what working in small groups was for. In Sherlock's case, it was almost a miracle, seeing him enjoying of someone else's company, but still, it was good.

When the lesson had ended and he retreated to the corridor, walking slowly to his second period, he wondered again about that sudden tang of jealousy he had felt before, and he arrived to the conclusion that it was understandable: since the beginning of the year, he had been Sherlock's only friend at the school. He had gotten used to that situation, and it was normal that now he felt a bit possessive when he finally had to share Sherlock with other friends. But it was only for the best: Sherlock needed friends of his age. Nell, Marcie and Rick were clever, funny and nice, and it was good that Sherlock finally got along with them. No, scratch that, it was _brilliant_.

Anyway, that Thursday on the lab he followed a wicked impulse and, completely out of the blue, he asked Nell:

"I see you get along with Sherlock lately… What happened to that Mark you said you fancied?"

Nell and Marcie, who was pairing with her also in the lab, giggled and shushed John.

"Nell!" Marcie whispered loudly, "You didn't tell me!"

"Hey, don't judge me, remember when Sherlock arrived to Greenwood? He was fourteen, and we all thought he was a cutie pie!" Nell almost chocked, laughing. But she sobered up a bit and added, looking at John. "Not that he would ever pay me any attention, mind you…"

"That's what I meant!" Marcie said. "He's not interested in girls."

John felt a bit silly and at a loss of words. He wanted to ask, but he did remember the girls had already told him some stories… that he had chosen to forget. Luckily for him, Nell was so willing to tell them again that she didn't need to be asked.

"When he arrived, transferred from another school, he was very shy", she told him. "But he soon became friends with another boy, Will Johnson. They were inseparable for a year and a half. But then, last year, Sherlock opened his heart, or tried to kiss Will, something like that, and Will was mad at him. Will started to mock him in front of everybody, and told all his friends a lot of strange stories about Sherlock."

John felt his heart crumpling and couldn't help staring at the boy, who was focused in his task, oblivious to their conversation.

"What a bastard!" Marcie exclaimed.

"Yeah, Sherlock was devastated", Nell added.

The three of them watched the boy until he noticed the sudden attention and raised his face to look in their direction, puzzled. All three pretended to be busy with the experiment at once. John coughed, feeling his cheeks warm. _I bet I'm red as a beetle_, he thought. _John, let the topic go. In fact, move your ass to another table_.

"Ehem… and now? Is he seeing anyone?" he asked, feeling completely stupid.

Marcie and Nell exchanged a naughty look and giggled again.

"How in Earth haven't you noticed yet?" Nell answered. "You men are so blind sometimes… It's quite obvious Sherlock has a huge crush on you, John."

_Sherlock has a… And the girls have noticed, oh my god_. He managed to close his mouth, but he didn't feel like moving at all: his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. His eyes moved involuntarily to Sherlock. The boy was watching him, and at seeing his glance, he smiled at him. It wasn't anything naughty, just a warm and friendly smile, but John felt confusion spreading through his whole body and knotting firmly in his stomach. He finally moved towards his desk, without smiling back.

That night he dreamt of Sherlock. They were fumbling against each other, rubbing the bare skin of their chests, their trousers still on. In his dream, he ran his lips over Sherlock's clavicle, and let his hands wander by the boy's ribs, marvelling at the softness of his flesh, the warmth that seemed to shroud them both, the unexpected hardness of his chest, suddenly a bony hip that fitted just perfect inside the palm of John's hand… He woke up panting, asking for more aloud, and then realising it was just a dream and palming himself, his own throbbing and hot self, and pumped hard closing his eyes and evoking Sherlock's skin, wishing he had dreamt a little longer, that he had the chance to know the taste of his lips, even though it was in dreams.

He came with a cry, and tried to get asleep as fast as possible, knowing if he stayed awake just some minutes more, he would start to feel guilty and fucked.

He couldn't hold those feelings at bay the next morning, of course, and regret made his stomach churn. _Lusting after a pupil… Could I sink lower? And a boy, nonetheless… Well, as if it would make it any better if it was Marcie or Nell instead… _John shuddered at the thought. He spent all the day thinking about it, staring at mid air in his lab periods, absently. What made things worst was the fact that Sherlock was infatuated with him; it would turn him not only into a molester, but into a cruel abuser if he followed his instincts. What he was feeling was sick, wrong, and the only possible path of action was avoiding Sherlock as much as possible. It

was only a fleeting attraction, the logical outcome of too much time without being laid. It would pass in a couple of weeks.

He whatsapped some friends from the army, hoping one of them would be available to go out that Saturday night, and luckily Bill was free and willing. John went back home feeling slightly better.

He tried to keep himself busy and in company all the weekend, deciding that spending time with his two flatmates could be nice, for a change. Well, watching football with them was okay, but sadly they had few more things in common.

Saturday night with Bill was fun, as well. They went to a popular club in Leicester Square, full of elegant chicks and handsome men, where both of them felt slightly out of place, with their comfortable but rather ordinary clothes, until they had a couple of pints and started with whisky. Then things got better, they told army jokes until they realised they had got public; their new friends led them to another pub where they attempted to dance, and soon Bill was too drunk to stand up, and the situation seemed so funny to John that he couldn't stop grinning. He didn't see any girl whom he felt attracted enough in all the night. He even took a look at the men. Nothing. In the end, he helped Bill stand and, instead of taking a cab, they walked across half London, singing army songs and remembering still more funny stories.

"I'm sorry, John", Bill mumbled when they arrived to his flat, safe and sound. "I know you expected to get laid tonight, I've fucked your chance."

"Don't worry, I didn't find anyone interesting. And it was great, we should repeat it!"

John arrived home and slept without a dream. Come morning, he felt at the same time relieved and disappointed. And he had an awful hangover.

He started his week with Sherlock's group, as always. John avoided looking at him, what was easy, because he sat on a side of the classroom, and John could focus his wandering gaze on the centre. But then, after the explanation, Sherlock raised his hand to ask a question, as he usually did, and John's eyes were caught on the soft curve of Sherlock's lips, those lips he had never tasted, not even in dreams. He had to cough and ask the boy to repeat the question. This time John looked at a blank point upon Sherlock's head.

He did the same on Wednesday and in the lab the next day. Sherlock worked alone in his task, looking at John now and then, and John didn't need Sherlock's observation skills to read the boy face, it was clearly screaming: "Why are you avoiding me?" When Sherlock stopped by John's desk at the end of the lesson, John got up quickly and apologised:

"I'm really sorry, but I have an appointment and I'm in a bit of a hurry."

And he took his folder, saw the students out and closed the door behind Sherlock. He could feel those bright cat-like eyes on his back while he walked away, piercing him, and could imagine vividly the hurt expression on Sherlock's face. _I'm sorry, Sherlock. So, so sorry…_

The next week was more or less the same. He avoided looking at Sherlock during the day, and thinking of him during the night. The second was harder than the first. All the loneliness he had been accumulating since he returned from the army attempted to jump over his shoulders at once, and even when he let his mind wander by the whole list of beautiful actresses that usually made do for him, now it was useless, and he just wasted his time and got distracted, until his dreamt Sherlock filled his mind and made him focus. He often stopped and went to have a shower instead. Perhaps joining a gym would be a good idea. Sport, showers and friendly company: that would finish with any fleeting sick interest.

They were already in December, and the students' conversation revolved around the Christmas holidays, the recent events mostly on the background. It was Thursday, that meant Sherlock's group lab hour. But John had already delivered the worksheets to his pupils, and Sherlock still wasn't there. He asked Marcie and Nell if he had come that day, and they said so. It was a bit worryingly. Was Sherlock so uncomfortable with his avoidance that he preferred to play truant now? At last, a quarter past the time of the beginning of the lesson, the door opened and there

he was, Sherlock Holmes in his long dark trench coat, scruffy dark curls and a dark eye to match.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, alarmed. He turned towards the classroom. "Alright, guys, please keep working, I'm having a word with Sherlock in the corridor. Please be quiet, I can hear every word!"

He almost pushed the tall boy out again. Sherlock sighed and walked a few feet away before stopping. His fingers were reckless until he opted for putting his hands inside his coat pockets. John betted he was dying for a cigarette; he knew the boy smoked now and then, although he had never seen him. He would have to abstain now, though: he wasn't going to let him go anywhere.

"What happened, Sherlock? Was that Adrian again?"

Sherlock avoided John's eyes, but answered all the same.

"Some of his minions today; he seems to be very busy of late. Don't worry, I went to the cafeteria to put something cold on it, I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it, but perhaps you need a bit of extra help. What do your parents say about this?"

Sherlock sighed again and let himself fall onto the floor, sitting with his forearms on his knees.

"I started Secondary school in the same school my brother was attending… Saint Peter's". John nodded, he knew that school. It was the best one in the area, and the natural choice for someone as brilliant as Sherlock but who couldn't, or wouldn't, go to a public school. In fact, John had asked him before why he had chosen such an ordinary school as Greenwood, but that time Sherlock had just shrugged. "I didn't fit there; the teachers hated me, my brother was too busy to put me under his umbrella and I rubbed some bullies the wrong way… So after years of begging, my parents allowed me to change schools. But when I had just arrived here, Adrian came to greet me with his usual newcomer's prank, and I told him a couple of things I should better have closed my mouth about…" Another sigh, but Sherlock finally looked at John's eyes. "My parents are concerned about me, sure, but they won't let me change school again. And, in the end, this is my last year, so it doesn't matter any more".

"I will get them detention the whole next week, Sherlock, but I wished I could do a bit more…"

Sherlock's jaw tensed and his eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"_Don't_."

"What…?"

"Just _don't_, John. If there's one thing I don't need from you, that's your _pity_". Sherlock almost spat the last word.

He turned his face in disgust and got up from the floor, enveloping himself on his long trench coat and turning up his lapels. John felt tempted to grin, _this boy and his dramatics_!, but he refrained.

"Who's talking about pity?" he said, instead. "You are a brilliant young man, strong, independent and stubborn. Why would I pity you?"

Sherlock glanced him askance, his face unreadable.

"Secondary school and uni will come to an end, and you will still be your brilliant self. Who knows where those bullies will be? Not in your league, that's for certain. Just ignore them, Sherlock."

The boy looked again down to his shoes.

"What if those bullies are right about me?" he whispered quietly.

"What do they say?"

"That I'm a freak, that I'm weird and mad. That I'm a lonely loony."

John's mouth was so dry that it felt suddenly as sandpaper. He licked his lips, thoroughly, trying to find words.

"You are not a freak, Sherlock" he managed to say. "Or, if you are, then you are a new kind of freak, one fantastic kind, I should add."

Sherlock gaze found his, frowning.

"But still, you don't like me" he threw accusingly at John.

"It's not like that!" John exclaimed, sighing. "Can you please remember you are my pupil, and underage? We can't even discuss that, can't you see it?"

"I'm over the age of consent! I'll be seventeen next month!"

John mentally facepalmed.

"Seventeen? I thought you already were!"

"In primary school I skipped a year, they put me forward."

"So you are in fact just sixteen?" _Now I'm the one who needs a cigarette, and I don't even smoke. _

"Only for one month more, John, I've just explained."

Sherlock kept staring at his teacher, but he pointedly refused to return his gaze. John was trying to compose himself enough to come back to the lab. But then, Sherlock added:

"What if I asked you again in the summer, when the year finishes? You won't be my teacher by then."

John's heartbeats menaced to jump off his chest. He dared a quick look in Sherlock's direction: the boy was smiling. A warm, lovely smile, without anger, without flirtation, just a tug of his lips and a sparkle in his incredibly deep blue eyes. John found himself smiling back before he noticed.

"You are missing lab time, you idiot" he told the boy, holding the door open for him. "Come inside before the hour ends!"

Curiously, now that they have finally talked, John felt more relaxed, and if Sherlock came to his mind that weekend (and he did), it was not the "wet dream Sherlock" who appeared, but the smiling clever boy, proud, strong and somewhat childish, and his thought didn't hunter John's nights with impossible lust, but rather filled him with affection. _This is better_, he thought. _Is it?_ he asked himself. But as long as he hadn't anything to feel guilty about, he could rub off the doubts.

Monday lesson was… nice. Comfortable, amicable, sharing witty jokes with Marcie, Nell and Rick, and Sherlock still sitting by the racks, but clearly eavesdropping and smiling to their comments. The whole morning was quite acceptable, in fact, with even his worst group mostly behaving. Lunch with Mike and Molly commenting on football and some gossip, anything especial, but anything wrong either, and John was glad for that. But peace never lasts, in John's experience, so why would it last then?

As soon as he stepped off the cafeteria, he knew something was off. Mike and Molly didn't seem to notice, but there was definitively something. When he saw Sherlock running up the stairs to the second floor, jumping two at a time, he had the evidence he needed. He apologised to his mates and ran after Sherlock.

The second floor corridor should be quite empty; there was still fifteen minutes left until the bell chimed, announcing the afternoon lessons. But a small crowd was gathering around the girls' toilets. John begged to be let pass and, when he managed to peek inside the toilets, his heart sank.

Sergeant Gregson and two more yarders were talking to a couple of very frightened girls. The girls' toilets featured a long mirror, unlike the boys' one, which displayed just bare tiled walls. A long mirror that sported now a huge crack above one of the washbasins, a crack stained in red. Some blood drops were splattered here and there on the floor. And Sherlock, of course, was already there.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oi, you! Get the hell out of here!", Sergeant Gregson barked.

The words where obviously directed at Sherlock, but the boy looked oblivious, too busy crouched under the washbasin, feeling the floor with both hands. John had no idea of what he was doing, but at the insistence of Gregson's shouts, the boy raised his face and looked expectantly at John. _Okay_.

John took Gregson's sleeve. The Yarder turned to look at him, annoyed at first, and incredulous when he finally met John's face and realised who he was.

"You again? What the fuck are the two of you doing in another crime scene, mister…?"

"Watson. Look, Sergeant, this boy is really clever and intuitive; you wouldn't believe the amount of details he can observe in a moment…"

"Get the boy out of here, Mister Watson. And please, disappear yourself, got it? You cannot be here, my colleagues are trying to take pics."

"We will go off right now, of course; nothing furthest of our minds that bothering you and your colleagues. Scotland Yard has all our respect". John could see Sherlock with the corner of his eye; his student gestured him to go on. "In fact, I wanted to talk you about this boy, because he really admires your work and would like to be a Scotland Yard officer one day…"

"That's all really fine, Mister Watson, but please now…"

"I know, I know! I just wanted to thank you for your work here at the school; you make the girls feel somewhat safer. And… are you sure you don't want to hear Sherlock's impressions on the attacker? He is quite impressive, you know…"

"Mister Watson!" Gregson shouted, a thick vein in his forehead trembling. "Off you go, now!"

"But of course! Just… one last question. Can I know the name of the victim? Just to know if it was again one of my pupils…"

The cop sighed and rubbed his forehead, soothing his poor vein.

"Her name is Saskia Jankowska. She's been taken to Queen Elizabeth Hospital, if you want to inquire."

"Thank you very much, Sergeant!"

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him out of the toilets. The officers had already put yellow tape, with the "no crossing- Police investigation" letters, out the door, and the group of onlookers was even larger than before. The bell chimed, the Head Teacher approached the crime scene, and suddenly all the people disappeared, heading for their classrooms. Sherlock and John slipped into the next boys' toilet.

"Sorry I couldn't buy you more time", John said at once. "What do you have?"

"I don't know the girl, but she is not in Sixth Form, so she is younger than Claire. We will go for same height, perhaps a couple inches less…"

A boy came out of one of the stalls, looking at them with curiosity.

"You are late, please do hurry!" John urged, and the boy jumped in surprise and ran out the door.

Sherlock kept pacing as if anyone had interrupted them.

"I could do with some help from your part, do you mind, John?"

John shrugged.

"Of course; what do you need?"

"As you are more or less the same height of the victim… and I'm more or less the same height of the attacker…"

"Oh, I know", John sighed. "OK. Where am I, what posture?"

"Come here… I could see the girl when they were taking her out in a stretcher, just a glimpse, but with the position of her injury re-enacting the attack is child's play… You, John, come from the stall and go to that washbasin to wash your hands…" He stopped for a moment while John came nearer the washbasin Sherlock was pointing to. He opened the tap and turned to look at Sherlock, expectant. "The attacker came from behind. This time he was wearing some kind of mask or balaklava, because the victim had a mirror in front of her and could see him coming. He took the girl by her neck". He approached John from behind and anchored his left arm around the teacher's neck, like a python. "With his other hand, the dominant one, he forced the girl down". He acted that part too, and John gasped when his forehead touched the cold tiles in front of him. "The victim struggled to get free, and the man hit her head against the mirror, which cracked. I'm not sure if the victim lost consciousness or not with this."

Sherlock pushed John's head down, against the washbasin, his torso glued to his teacher's back. John was suddenly very aware of the warmth and muscles enveloping him, and he refused to acknowledge if there was a hardness pushing against his bum or not. Instead, he focused in keeping his own breath even and in the details of the rape.

"I… I don't think so", he managed to mumble. He was keeping his balance with one hand on the cold china, and then used his free hand to pull at Sherlock's wrist. "You are cutting my breath…"

"Sorry". The grip loosened a little. "Alright, the girl was conscious. But in this posture, she couldn't move much. The attacker used his dominant hand to push her trousers and underwear down… That part is clear as day, so there's no need to re-enact it…"

With that, he let go of John completely. The teacher stood up, rubbing his neck and gazing sideways at his pupil, glad of the sudden space between them.

"So… does it help us at all? Is there something new?"

"Perhaps". The boy started pacing again, his hands behind his back. "The height and amount of force used match the previous rape, so I don't think is ventured to attribute this crime to the same attacker."

"Of course it's not!" Sherlock glared at him. "Excuse me, go on!"

"The same attacker… A Greenwood student. But now he had the prevision of wearing a mask, and doing it in a safer place… The second floor toilets, at lunch time? Who would go there?"

"Do you think he asked the girl to meet him there?"

"Could be, yes. What is clear is the fact that, this time, he planed the attack. With Claire, he was just testing the waters, now he knows exactly what he wants to do. And he has no qualms in using the violence to achieve it. Claire was the first and… Oh!"

The boy stopped his pacing and his words all of a sudden.

"Sherlock? What happens?"

"I know who the attacker is!"

And with these words, Sherlock ran out the door. Startled, John followed him, trying not to make too much noise in the silent corridor. The boy had run to the lockers, located at both ends of the corridors, and was now opening his. He took his schoolbag out and searched inside for a moment. He finally handed John a copy of the suspects list he had worked out.

"How could I be so blind, John? It was in front of our noses all this time…"

John took a look at the list again, still puzzled.

"Sherlock. Could you please explain…?"

"I have already done it!" Sherlock pointed to the list again, impatient.

"OK, excuse me for being slower than you!" John exclaimed, annoyed. Then he realised they were still in the corridor, while the rest of the people were inside the classrooms, working, and lowered his voice. "What am I missing?"

"Isn't it obvious, John?" Sherlock snorted. "The attacker is in Claire's group, in MY group. He watched her every day, that's why he chose precisely Claire. Possibly, he didn't even ask her out or anything; he just watched her flirt with a lot of boys and got angry."

John went again to the list, searching greedily. There was only a name of the list that belonged to Sherlock's group. He raised his eyes again from the paper; Sherlock was looking at him, intensely, his eyes green this time, with a touch of yellow that made them look like if his eyes were in fire.

"Simon. Do the rest of features match? I didn't know he practised any sport…"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, but he helps his father in the afternoon. His family runs a meat warehouse. Lots of carrying heavy boxes, perhaps even using the cleaver… That makes do for the rough hands. And he is strong, as tall as me…"

"God, he is twice your size! His voice is not exactly deep, though."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Claire said he had something over his mouth. His t-shirt, perhaps. And he has certainly changed his voice."

"Alright." John sighed, his head spinning. "So, we know who the attacker is. What can we do now? Should we try to convince Gregson that we have found the man?"

Sherlock frowned and started pacing again, rubbing his lips with his fingers.

"He would never listen to us! God, I need a cigarette!"

"Let's go out of here. You are not going to the next lesson either?"

Sherlock grinned and took his schoolbag, as if such a silly question didn't deserve an answer. John found himself following him again, this time down the stairs and out of the building. As soon as they arrived to the front stairs, outside, Sherlock produced a cigarette from his coat pocket and lighted it.

"Ah, that's better!"

John stared at him, frowning.

"Sherlock, you know you shouldn't smoke, right?"

Sherlock dedicated him a lopsided grin.

"Yes, teacher. Can we go back to our more interesting topic of how to find evidences against Simon Wells?"

John sat on the first bench of the school ground, sighing. He felt suddenly rather impotent; how could it be possible, that they knew who the rapist was, but nobody was going to believe them? Not when their hands were empty. They needed evidences, something tangible that Scotland Yard would accept. That seventeen year old criminal was right now sitting in his classroom, looking all innocent and smiling innerly at how clever he was. _Oh my God. Marcie and Nell and the rest of the girls of the group… They are all in danger until we can put him in jail!_, he thought.

"Relax, John". Sherlock's voice interrupted his thoughts. "He won't attack any soon. He needs time to pick his next victim and plan it all".

John nodded while a chill ran across his back.

"Until all the school has relaxed", John said. "That's when he will attack again."

"At this time of the year, that means after Christmas. So we have almost a month to plan how to set him a trap."

Sherlock turned suddenly, his long coat snapping the air, and started to walk with long strides towards the grounds exit.

"Hey! Sherlock!" John ran after him, cursing. "You can't be sure about that! What if he has already picked a victim? What if he doesn't want to wait?"

Sherlock threw the cigarette butt, exhaling a last puff of white smoke.

"Both attacks have been inside the school, I doubt he will attack during the Christmas break. He has found his modus operandi by now, he won't deviate. We should keep an eye on him until the holidays begin. That would make you feel better?"

"Well, yes."

John stopped at the gate, slightly breathless for trying to keep up with the young man's strides. Sherlock didn't turn this time, just kept walking fast, his schoolbag hanging loosely from his shoulder, and waved him with his free hand.

"See you tomorrow, Doc!"

* * *

The next ten days passed in a blur. Sherlock and John compared their timetables and reckoned that it would be slightly difficult to watch Simon Wells during all the school hours, being just two people, so John proposed enlisting Rick, Marcie and Nell for the surveillance; after some insisting, Sherlock grudgingly accepted. John didn't say it, but it made him feel better knowing that the girls were aware of who was their main suspect. His students were shocked by the news, but they joined with enthusiasm. So promptly there was always someone waiting for Simon Wells at the outer gate, leaning against the wall while playing with their phones, or pretending to tie their trainers. Someone followed his very movements on his way towards his classroom. When he went to the toilet, someone raised their hand after a minute and asked to go to take care of an "emergency". Same with every break and lunch time. Simon Wells was thoroughly watched until he disappear streets away from Greenwood every afternoon.

"He doesn't seem to pay any attention to girls", Marcie commented at lab hour. Simon was in the other half-group, where Rick was keeping an eye on him, so they could talk more freely.

"It doesn't mean anything", Sherlock pointed out. "It is possible that he has already chosen a victim, even that he chose his victims weeks or months ago."

"Always SO reassuring, Sherlock", Marcie snorted.

"Did you manage to talk to Saskia's friend, Nell?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Marcie. She frowned and attempted a poke at him, which he dodged easily without even looking at her.

Nell nodded.

"Yep. You know she was just _fifteen_?" John grabbed the table tighter, feeling goose bumps down his back. _What a sick bastard; the poor little girl_. Nell sighed and kept talking. "You were right, Sherlock: Saskia received a note from a secret admirer, asking her to meet him at lunch time at the second floor toilets. But the note also said she must burn the note as soon as she had read it."

"And she did", Sherlock mumbled, biting his lower lip, his eyes glazed and lost in his own thoughts.

"Sadly, yes", Nell confirmed. "I still can't believe it, she's so… small. Are you sure about our suspect, Sherlock? Because I'm tempted to steal my father's hammer and sculpt a new face on that monster."

"We need evidence, but yes, ninety per cent sure."

"What if he attacks someone during the Christmas break?" Marcie asked.

Sherlock sighed, and John could tell he had already disconnected from the conversation. '_Boring_', he would say. Because they had discussed about that again and again; Sherlock was sure that scenario wouldn't happen, but of course the rest had their doubts. They all agreed Sherlock was a genius, but all those policemen around the school made the students grumpy; and the staff wasn't very happy, either.

The Christmas break couldn't come too early.

* * *

But the first day of holidays arrived at last, and they were really happy to leave the uneasiness behind Greenwood's walls. John thought that, first of all, he was going to make up for all the lost sleep of the last weeks. His phone chiming at eight a.m. broke that idyllic plan.

He grunted and reached for his damned phone, and then tried to read the whatsapp sender through his still half closed eyes. When he managed, all the sleep dissolved at once.

'_Did you tell me I could whatsapp you if I had any news of S.? SH'_

John hurried to answer.

'_Yes, of course!'_

'_Can I whatsapp you even if I don't have any news of him?' SH_

John giggled. That stupid, stupid genius…

'_I think that's exactly what you are doing right now.'_

'_Alright. Good to know.'_

And that was all for the day. The next day was Christmas Eve, and John took the train northwards and met his parents and sister for dinner. Everything was fine, or at least they pretend it was. They ran out of topics to talk about very soon, though, but his mother had the brilliant idea of taking out their family photo albums. His sister, Harry, and him obviously protested, but a punch and an album later they were laughing like little kids, and the house-made dinner filled the whole house with a delicious smell. His phone buzzed, and John fished it from his trouser's back pocket.

'_My brother is still more insufferable than I remember, and my mum has burned the goose. Send help!' SH_

John smiled lazily.

"Oooh, is there a girlfriend, then?" Harry smirked.

"Sadly, no. Just a pupil."

"Now you give your phone number to your pupils, John?" his sister berated him, frowning. "Isn't it against ethics, or something like that"

John felt slightly ashamed, remembering too well some of his feelings about Sherlock, until he reassured himself, claiming that the main reason he had given Sherlock, Rick and the girls his number was a cent per cent honest reason.

"That's none of your business, you busybody."

But he pocketed his phone without answering the message. At midnight, though, after they toasted and wished the best for each other, he took out his phone again and sent a quick:

'_Happy Christmas, Sherlock! I hope you are having a nice evening after all'_

The answer arrived less than a minute after:

'_Honestly, it would be much better if you were here' SH_

John's heart skipped a beat. His phone, still in his hand, buzzed again.

'_Sorry, happy Christmas to you too' SH_

* * *

Sherlock was silent on Christmas and Boxing days. John was aware of it because he began to have the habit of checking his phone for messages every five or ten minutes. The 27th he couldn't help it any more.

'_Have you checked the news? Anything that seems related to S.?'_ he sent.

The answer, as always, was fast as light.

'_Yes, I have, and no, anything at all. SH'_

And thirty seconds after:

'_The most boring Christmas I can remember in years. SH'_

'_Sorry to hear that. Any good present?'_ John asked, smiling at his phone.

'_Ppppfffff. My mum gave me one jumper that matches those horrible ones you wear sometimes. SH'_

'_Oi! Don't insult my jumpers!'_

'_By the way, your mother and mine could meet and become friends: mine also gave me a jumper'_

'_Oh, not another one. SH'_

'_Yessssss… Put yours on the first day of school and we will match.'_

'_No way I'm wearing that. It's simply distasteful. SH'_

'_Isn't it always, when our mothers pick it? Got a pic of the offensive jumper?'_

A full minute after, a pic arrived: a green angora wool jumper with turtle neck.

'_Not that bad, but yes, not your style. Wanna see mine?'_

'_No. SH'_

_Oh_, John thought. _Fun is over_.

'_I prefer to see it when you are wearing it. SH'_

John tried to think of what to say to that. He thought about it for five full minutes, and his phone seemed to weigh more in his hands every minute that went by. At last the device buzzed again.

'_Aren't you going to tell me off for the innuendos? How unusual of you… SH'_

_That's enough_, John thought, sweating.

'_Can you please stop it? We will talk back in the school,'_

'_That's what I expected you to say. I'll text you if I hear something about our suspect. SH'_

John sighed and pocketed his phone.

He kept checking it from time to time, more sparingly now, but no more messages from Sherlock arrived.

He attended a New Year's Eve party with his friend Bill, and at midnight, when all the couples kissed and the fireworks turned the dark sky into a golden and fabulous landscape, he typed a fast _'Happy New Year, Sherlock'_ on his phone. But when he was about to send it, he remembered at once the previous days' conversations and preferred to delete it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Lots of love to my beta in this story, Distantstarlight! _

* * *

The school opened again the next Monday, but the holidays' festive flair had vanished quickly, and the uneasiness was still hanging over Greenwood as a grey cloud, a dense presence that turned the air almost unbreathable. The security guard dressed in black at the front gate didn't help to raise the moods. John saw at first glance that Rick was on his watching place, sitting on a bench and pretending to read a comic-book; he approached him and sat by his side. A quick rest before the lessons of the day would do wonders to his aching leg, anyway.

"Morning, John!" Rick greeted him. "I hope you had a great time on Christmas."

"Not bad. Hope yours was good, too. Nice presents?"

Rick's face lit up and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he seemed to change his mind and spoke quietly:

"I told my father about S. and about Sherlock's list."

John's heart leapt, excited. His eyes swept the school gate: still no suspect at sight.

"He was glad that I told him, and he thought it was really clever. But he agreed with us, without evidence we have nothing against S. And Sergeant Gregson is too stubborn to listen to any external help, he said. He told me he would suggest S.'s name at the Yard, as if it was his own idea, and he asked me to have our eyes open and phone him if we ever observe anything off."

"Good. We can't do anything else, can we?"

Rick smiled.

"We are the school watchers! Not bad for me!"

John smiled back. The huge and distinctive shape of Simon Wells entered the corner of his eye, and Rick and he turned to look at him and then pretended to be talking about something else. Simon arrived with a friend, and didn't seem to notice them or the security guard. After a moment, Rick and John stood up and followed Simon across the grounds. Nell was leaning casually against the stone parapet at one side of the front doors, listening to music on his phone, and she seemed to be just waiting for a friend before going inside the building. Simon looked at her, and when he passed by her side he greeted her with a nod. John thought for a moment that the boy was going to stop and talk to her, but he finally followed his friend inside. Nell noticed, too, and avoided his eyes. She looked down the front stairs instead, and her gaze found John's and Rick's watching her; her relief was obvious and pretty visible. Rick stopped by her side and John stepped in the school building alone, his eyes fixed on Simon's movements. They were going to the same classroom, so it wasn't strange that they took the same corridors and the same stairs.

Another huge shape interposed between the student and his tail, though. Mike Stamford, smiling widely, came closer and patted his back.

"John! I thought I was going to hear from you these holidays!"

"Oh, hello, Mike!" John greeted, his eyes still fixed on Simon's back. "I'm sorry, but I went to my parents' house for a couple of days."

"Ah, of course. Was it very awful?"

John chuckled. Simon was in front of their classroom's door now; according to their schedule, Sherlock would be already inside the classroom to keep an eye on Simon, so he could relax a bit.

"No, not awful, just boring. Well, my sister is still a pain in the arse, you know."

Mike laughed.

"Yes, I remember that… How could I forget that Medicine party when your 17 year old sister got completely plastered and snogged Christy Evans in front of everybody? Shit, I still don't know if I was more jealous or turned on! Christy Evans, nonetheless… The most beautiful woman in our group, three years daydreaming about her and then your sister arrives and takes her…"

"Well, Harry always has had good taste, I have to give that to her."

The school bell chimed, and they waved goodbye, smiling, and parted ways. John stepped in his classroom and took a quick glance in his way to his desk. Simon was sitting on a table, close to the open window, chatting with a male mate. He was in general a quiet person, with just a handful of male friends, and he wasn't cocky or a troublemaker as some boys of his age and constitution. John hadn't even thought about him or talked to him before all this happened; Simon usually was diffused among the anonymous "main group", as John noticed now. After all, teachers don't have time to spend with students who don't protrude above or below the mass.

Slowly, the rest of his pupils came in the classroom and started to throw his coats off and sit down. Rick arrived then; Marcie and Nell were still chatting at the door with a group of girls. Sherlock was already sitting down, playing with his phone as usual.

Sherlock.

The boy was wearing a purple silk shirt again, and the deep colour made his skin look still paler and creamy, and his hair darker by contrast. John gulped and focused again in his lesson, deciding that anything unrelated to Chemistry would have to wait, be it teenage violent rapists or beautiful and clever pupils.

* * *

They kept the scheduled surveillance exactly the same as before Christmas. If anything, they had now a sense of anticipation, given that they all thought the next attack would be very soon: Simon had had all the Christmas holiday to plan, after all. The surveillance team spoke little of the topic, but the tension was there. Sherlock, in fact, didn't talk at all, and he seemed distracted during the lessons. Neither of them both mentioned the Christmas messages, but at the end of Wednesday's lesson Sherlock approached John's desk with a little smile. _What's in your mind, Sherlock? What are you devising against our attacker?_ John really felt the need of talking with the boy, but they didn't have any excuse, and Simon was always too near.

"My birthday is tomorrow", Sherlock said instead.

"Oh! Really? But of course, you said it was in January, I just didn't expect it was so soon."

Sherlock lowered his eyes, still smiling.

"Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?" he asked the boy. "Well, Chinese takeaway will have to do, of course."

Sherlock raised his eyes again, bright green and clearly excited.

"It would be the best birthday present I can think of", he answered.

John smiled back. _Good_. He took his thick folder and his bag.

"See you tomorrow, then."

And he went off before someone else noticed his warm cheeks.

* * *

The next day's lessons and surveillance seemed to last forever. John usually pondered thoroughly before deciding anything, but once the decision was made, he couldn't relax until the deed was done. That day's periods, especially the last one, had included lots of nervous finger-tapping on the table and lip-licking, and his leg was giving him a terrible time. He almost wished he could go home as soon as possible, and lie down on his couch with a blanket and watch tv the rest of the day. But that wouldn't do, he had plans and wouldn't, couldn't chicken out now.

The last lab time finished and the students started to clean their tables and the equipment. Sherlock did the same, but took his time on purpose. John had tried to avoid staring at him during the lesson, but now he indulged in a long glance, half smiling. The boy was dress in sharp black, and by contrast his neck and his hands (the parts John could see right at that moment) looked pearly white, almost shiny. But then Sherlock turned, feeling John's eyes piercing him, and his green eyes outshine everything else. The boy smiled widely and approached John's desk, his schoolbag hanging loosely from one shoulder and his coat carefully folded on his arm. They waited a couple of minutes that way, standing by the desk and waving the last students on their way out, until they were finally alone. Sherlock was about to go out the door, too, but John asked him to wait with a gesture. He closed the lab door and went back to his desk; he fumbled with his bag, trying to take something big from inside and not succeeding at first.

"I've got a birthday present for you, Sherlock… if I manage to take it from my bag, that is, damn it! Ah, finally!"

And he handed Sherlock a thick and battered volume. The boy's eyes widened at seeing it, and he opened it at once, browsing through the pages, stopping now and then to read a handwritten note or observing carefully a diagram.

"My Chemistry teacher gave it to me as a present in my last year at Barts", John explained, smiling.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the book to look at him, shocked. He glanced at the huge book again.

"John, you can't give me this."

"Of course I can, and I'm doing it. You will take more advantage of it than me, believe me. And… ah, there's a dedication on the first page."

Sherlock hurried to look for it. There were some of them, in fact, each one in a different handwriting. Sherlock's mouth went dry; the book had obviously passed from teacher to pupil in a number of occasions. Somehow it made it even more valuable for him, and he had to resist the urge of running his hand over it, caressing the worn-out yellowish paper. He read aloud the last and obviously more modern dedication:

"To the best student I have ever dreamt of having. You make it worth it, Sherlock".

He looked at John again, visibly moved, and seemed to be trying to find words, trying to say 'thank you', when John simply stepped closer, put one hand on Sherlock's cheek, tip-toed slightly and joined his lips to Sherlock's. The boy opened his eyes wider and gasped. The kiss was light and really short, just a small peck, but afterwards John watched Sherlock expectantly. _Is he mad at me? Afraid? Too shocked?_ Shocked was the right answer, it seemed. John took the book from Sherlock's hands and placed it carefully on his desk. The second he turned again towards his pupil, the boy grabbed his shoulders and almost threw himself on top of John, crushing his lips with his mouth. John laughed through the kiss, and after a moment he managed to dominate it, going from the mess of teeth and saliva Sherlock was doing to a deep and slow snog. He settled his hands on the warmth and softness of Sherlock's waist, caressing it lightly with his thumbs, and savoured at last that mouth that had haunted his dreams so many times. He moved aside a bit to breathe and look again at Sherlock's face. The boy had closed his eyes, and his mouth was red and completely messed up, his lips parted in a silent beg for more. John chuckled, fondly, and wiped Sherlock's mouth with his hand. The boy opened again his eyes, surprised, and John came closer again (tip-toeing, _we need to do this sitting down, damn it_) and caught Sherlock's lower lip between his, nipping it carefully and eliciting a delightful gasp from the boy. Sherlock was watching intensely now. His upper lip followed the same path as the lower one, and John traced the peeks of it with his tongue and his own lips. He noticed that Sherlock was holding his breath; John then tilted his head and went to kiss Sherlock again, but stopped just an inch from his lips, his breath ghosting on the barely open mouth that was waiting for him. Sherlock couldn't help it, he moved forward and captured John's mouth, deeply, hungrily, but trying to be less messy this time. His strong hands ran by John's shoulders and arms, still shy of going further. John sighed, content, his own hands still at the small of Sherlock's back, and enjoyed the warmth and dampness of that mouth for a few minutes more, loving the taste of it, tea and cigarettes and something sweet that only could be Sherlock himself, and the unusual hardness of the body between his arms, all sharp and angular when he was used to hold rounded and soft flesh. _Unusual but not in a bad way_, he thought, encircling that brief waist that promised a skin as smooth and delicate as a girl's.

At last he moved away and looked him in the eye.

"Hungry?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling, and let go of his shoulders. They took their coats and bags and went out the lab. John closed the door with his key, aware of the stupid smile still plastered on both of their faces, and resisted the urge of holding Sherlock's hand along the corridor. They walked out side by side instead, Sherlock carrying the thick book under one arm, his coat folded on the same forearm, and his bag hanging from the opposite shoulder. They went out the building and the grounds without a word, in a comfortable silence, and ordered their food at the Chinese take away in the corner. They sat in the same bench as last time; it was just in front of the school, but at the same time out of it, so they felt free, in a way, but still conscious of their situation and the amount of eyes that could be watching them. They sat closer that the previous time, though. Sherlock waited until they had opened their food boxes and readied their sticks to ask, finally:

"I'm not complaining but, why have you changed your mind? What happened with all that "I don't fancy boys, and I'm your teacher" and the rest of that moral rubbish?"

John pretended to study his chop suey for a moment, picking at his food with his wood sticks.

"I had plenty of time to think about it these Christmas", he said at last. "The main reason teacher-student relationships are wrong is the fact that both participants are not even, the teacher is always in a higher position and takes advantage of someone younger and with less experience that looks up at them." He turned to look at Sherlock's eyes. "But in our case, Sherlock, it's not like that. I look up at you. You are the most amazing person I've ever met."

"So we are even?" Sherlock smiled.

_Have you listened to me? Have you looked at yourself? Of course we are not even_, John thought. But didn't dare to say it aloud.

"Not exactly", he said instead, smiling back. "But I don't think you have to learn anything from me, that's the point."

"Well, my kissing technique needs some improving, I regret to say".

John chuckled.

"Apart from that, obviously".

"And… what happens next?" Sherlock asked after a moment. "Are we a couple?"

John sighed.

"With two conditions, and they are non-negotiable. First one, it has to remain a secret."

"Until I finish at Greenwood?"

"And after as well. I'm sorry, but you are still seventeen. I feel bad enough, I would feel even worse if people started pointing at us in the street. So no-one from Greenwood can know, and neither your family."

He studied Sherlock's face in search of signs of disappointment, but he couldn't find any.

"That's OK. I'm not that close to anyone, so it won't be a problem. I don't want to bring you problems, John, you can trust me." John nodded and put another piece of food in his mouth. "And the second condition?"

"No sex, at all, until the summer."

"Hey, that's mean! I'm seventeen, John, I'm grown up enough to have sex!"

"Not with a teacher, sorry, that's out of the table. Listen to me, someone has to be the adult here, and it happens to be me. I'm not sleeping with a pupil, I wouldn't even if you were already eighteen. So if we are patient enough to wait until the summer, it will mean something. If we are not, well, then it will mean that what we feel is just attraction."

Sherlock's face fell.

"I'm being tested, then."

"The two of us, not only you", John hurried to correct. "Don't be so upset, Sherlock. We need time to know each other, after all."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but focused in eating his lunch. At the end, he stood up, smiling warmly at John, and went to throw the food containers to the bin. John went after him and placed his hand on Sherlock's hip, casually, as he threw away his own lunch remains. Sherlock smiled wider, and let the heel of his hand rub John's chest in his way back to the bench. Both men sat down again, feeling warm and satisfied, their hands itching to touch but settling for letting their knees bump together. Some of the students, the ones that had lunch at home or out the school as they had done, were coming back to the grounds, but they barely looked at John and Sherlock. It was really nice.

"Well", John sighed at last, "now all we need is to know who will be the attacker's next victim".

Sherlock grinned mischievously.

"Oh, but I already know that…"

John arched his eyebrows in disbelief. _No way. This boy is going to be the death of me…_

"And when you were going to tell us, I wonder?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Who is it?"

"It's Nell. Haven't you noticed how Simon looks at her? She's the only girl he has paid any attention at all during all this year, in fact, so it is possible that she was his intended victim since the beginning… John, are you listening to me?"

But John was looking frantically inside his bag, until he extracted their surveillance schedule. He looked up at Sherlock.

"It's her turn today at lunch time, Sherlock… She is following him, alone!"

And with that, he grabbed his bag and started to run towards the school building.


	6. Chapter 6

John could heard Sherlock's steps running behind him on the gravel ground, the sound of their bumping books a monotonous 'thud thud thud' and his own blood pumping deafening loud in his ears. _Please, Lord, don't let me be too late, please…_ When they arrived almost in front of the cafeteria, Sherlock overtook John thanks to his long legs and opened the outer door first. They stopped all of a sudden once inside, aware of the amount of eyes staring at them, hundreds of students eating lunch and chatting calmly, as if everything was alright, as if they didn't have a violent rapist among them, a wolf into the flock of sheep. The other security guard approached them slowly, frowning. John and Sherlock looked around, breathing deep, ready to start running again if necessary, but then they saw her: Nell was sitting at her usual table, with Marcie, Rick and a couple of girls from another group. They were engaged in a lively conversation, it seemed, but Rick, Nell, and Marcie were completely aware of their triumphal entrance. The security guard stopped close to John, clearly waiting for an explanation.

"Sherlock, go with them, I'll go in a minute", John asked.

And he turned, trying to give the guard his best charming smile.

Two minutes and an elaborated lie after, he approached the table were his pupils were sitting down.

"Lydia, Rose, sorry, we have to go now", Marcie said to the other girls. "John promised to give us five minutes of his time before the afternoon periods to check our group task. You don't mind, right?"

And with that, Nell, Rick, Sherlock and she stood up and followed John out to the corridor.

"I think I'll stay… I need a tea anyway", Sherlock said.

John saw Simon sitting with his friend not too far from them across the crowded room, and nodded. As soon as they closed the door, he gathered the boys close around him and told them Sherlock's thought. Nell face fell.

"That can't be possible. No! Why me? I've never talked more than a couple of sentences with him."

"Sherlock can be wrong", Rick hurried to add. "He's not infallible."

But Marcie was thoughtful.

"I don't know, Nell, I'm sorry but I think that Sherlock may be right. I have noticed how Simon looks at you, too. And last year…"

"That was nothing! I was only being nice to him!"

"Yeah, we both know that, but Simon is really shy, and I have never seen him talking much with any girl, so perhaps he thought…"

"Hey, hold on!" John interrupted. "I can't follow you, what happened last year?"

"Are you talking about that time that Nell defended him?" Rick asked. "If it's so, what would he want to hurt Nell? That makes no sense…"

"You defended him?" John tried to keep up. "What happened?"

Nell sighed.

"Some boys from Sixth Form accused Simon to steal money from the gym's locker room. They even went to our tutor, and I don't know why, but the man believed them. Simon was incredibly embarrassed and wasn't able to say anything. I think he was just overwhelmed and panicked, and he couldn't cope with the situation and say anything to defend himself. And everybody stared in silence, it was so wrong! So I stood up and told the boys and the tutor that Simon was obviously innocent, and said to them the places where their money could have fallen and lost. The tutor went with the boys to the locker room and, of course, they found their stupid money and afterwards they had to beg pardon to Simon."

"So Simon is in debt with you", John said, hesitant.

"I don't get it", Rick said, shaking his head.

"Simon was so grateful that started to be very nice to Nell", Marcie followed, grabbing her friend's arm. "And he asked her to go with him to the End of the Term party."

"And you said 'no'", John added.

"But he wasn't angry or anything!" Nell almost shouted. "This is stupid. It can be me. He acted completely normal after that, and the same this year."

John sighed and came closer to the girl, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Simon is an unbalanced person, Nell; someone capable of hurting Claire and Saskia that way… like an animal… is not normal. Please keep that in mind."

The afternoon lessons' bell chimed, and the cafeteria's door opened violently, pushed by a huge group of students joining them at the corridor.

"What do we do now, John?" Rick asked, worried. "Perhaps Nell should stay at home until we find what to do…"

"Or we could set a trap and get rid of this plague for good", said a deep voice at their backs.

They turned in time to see Sherlock smiling, inches from them. Simon and his friend were behind him and coming closer to the door.

"Nell and I will watch him, together", Marcie said at once, and the other girl nodded.

"Talk later?" Rick said, and started walking towards a group of nerdy boys, who greeted him with a smile.

Simon, his friend, and their tails passed in front of John and Sherlock and got lost among the crowd. John suddenly frowned and addressed Sherlock with an accusatory index at his chest.

"You! Come out of here, you git."

He strode towards the teachers toilet, waited until nobody was looking and stepped in. He made Sherlock a 'come in' gesture and waited for him, keeping the door open. The boy followed him, looking uncertain, and went inside. John checked that the two stalls were empty, and closed the door with his key, keeping it in the keyhole.

"Can I know what the hell you were thinking about? Why didn't you tell us you knew the next victim would be Nell?"

John was trying with all his will to keep his voice even and not to shout, but it was being hell to achieve. Sherlock looked a bit lost now.

"I only deduced it yesterday!" the boy said at last.

"And why didn't you tell me yesterday, then?"

"I was going to… but then you invited me to lunch today. I couldn't… I didn't want to ruin it, a date with you…"

Sherlock looked really upset now, his mouth a tight line and his bright eyes lost somewhere in the wall tiles. John breathed deeply. _He's a fucking teenager, what did you expect? Calm down and stop scaring him more, for god's sake!_

John coughed and talked again, calmer this time.

"Sherlock, that was selfish, alright? Nell is in danger, and we must protect her; that comes first. Do you understand it?"

The boy nodded, still tense, but looking John in the eye.

"Now, you should go to your classroom or you will arrive late."

"Are you angry at me?"

Sherlock's voice broke a little at the last word, and John's heart broke a little too. He stepped forward and hugged Sherlock, tight, inhaling the scent of his hair.

"Of course not. How could I."

They parted a bit, still grabbing each other's arms.

"You said we could set a trap. Send me a whatsapp later if you come with an idea on how to do it."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll do. I know exactly how we can do it. John…"

_I know, Sherlock_. The boy leaned in John's personal space and kissed him deeply, his hands running through John's short hair. There was a desperate note in his kiss, and John acknowledged it; he drew soothing patterns on the boy's back, eager to reassure him. But he had to let go soon, too soon, and both sighed and parted ways.

* * *

When the first message from Sherlock arrived, John still had the scent of his pupil's hair in his nose, in his head. He read the string of instructions (simple, logical, seemingly easy), and tried to focus on what was more important, and that wasn't the unusual pounding of his mad heart, but the endangered life of Nell. He passed the information to Nell, and she did the same with Marcie and Rick. If everything happened without further complication, the next day all that awful matter would be finished.

* * *

Beyond any doubt, Friday was the best day at Greenwood, the main feature being that Sixth Formers didn't have afternoon lessons. In fact, John only had one hour of school availability and then a Department meeting, and afterwards he was free to go home if he wished. He checked his wrist clock: still ten o'clock. He wandered for a while in the cafeteria, letting his tea go cold and unable to focus in his bundle of homework to grade. His mind went back then and again to how Nell would handle her part: during that morning, she had to ensure that Simon overheard her telling to Marcie she was going to stay at the lab at lunch time, since John had lent her the key and allowed her to do some more practice exercises on her own; so no need for Marcie to wait for her after the last period.

God, the plan seemed so weak now! It was perfectly reasonable last night, what the hell had changed? John was sweating, and his stomach churned. What if Simon didn't buy it and found out instead that they were after him? What if he attacked Nell when she was really alone? What if…? _Oh, God, just leave it alone. Won't do vomiting right now and having to go back home, will it?_ John breathed deeply once, twice, thrice. He checked the time again: still not eleven. He groaned in defeat.

At last, he got up and went back to the staffroom. Being in company surely would do wonders for his nerves. There wasn't anybody from the Chemistry Department, sadly (they had all went home after the meeting, it seemed), but he was still able to distract himself for a while chatting with a couple of English teachers, and when they had to go he was again steady and cool head. He turned again to the tasks he had to grade, after that to the internet and then, at last, it was almost one o'clock. He prayed his visit was punctual; there had never been most at stake at punctuality that at that moment. John could feel the cold sweat in the palm of his hands while the other teachers started to appear in the staffroom, greeting each others, exchanging jokes, oblivious to his suffering.

"John!"

He jumped, startled, since he was watching intently the door and didn't notice the hand on his shoulder.

"Jesus!" he gasped, on turning and seeing Molly. "That was a good start you gave me… I didn't know you still were in the school."

"I was at the Department, preparing lessons… Are you feeling alright?"

"Oh, yes, sure. I'm…. ah, waiting for a parent."

"Ouch". Molly did a disgusted face. "Who's the little offender this time?"

"No, none of that, in fact… It's just… oh, I think he is here, excuse me."

John got up in a hurry and reached his hand towards the man standing at the door, who was looking around as if looking for someone. John had no time to waste.

"Mr. Hurt?" he asked.

The man didn't nod, but his gaze focused on John as if in acknowledgement. He didn't look much like his son, his hair fairer and his complexion broader, but there was a certain family likeness that reminded John of Rick.

"I'm John Watson, sir. Really pleased to meet you". _If you knew to what extent…_ "Would you mind to follow me? Rick must be waiting for us, and I bet he is hungry, so I won't take much of your time."

"Of course", the other man agreed.

Molly waved from the door.

"See you on Monday, John! Have a nice weekend."

John looked at her to wave her back and realised, horrified, that she was still wearing the while lab coat.

"Are you still going to work at the lab?"

The girl shrugged.

"Oh, just for half an hour or so. I wanted to test an experiment before taking the lads there on Tuesday."

Mr. Hurt was staring at them with a blank face, so John tried to solve this quickly.

"Actually, I was going to talk with Mr. Hurt in the lab, Molly. Rick is surely already waiting for us there. Would you mind running your test next Monday? I can help you at lunch time, if you want; it will be quicker."

Molly nipped her lower lip, but she smiled at once and started to take her lab coat off.

"Sure, no problem."

_Thank goodness_, John thought, sighing loudly, relieved. _That was close._ He took his coat and his bag and led the way out; Mr. Hurt followed him along the packed corridor and upstairs until the second landing. There he stopped, looking annoyed because of the many thumps he was receiving from the distracted students who were going down the stairs on their way home, unaware of the loose jolting of their backpacks and their effect on the passing people.

"Are you sure we wouldn't be more comfortable in the hall? The other times I have come to an interview with a teacher we always went to a small office near the Head teacher's one…" the man said.

"Well, yes, but I thought that, being Friday, and with everybody so agitated, you know, we would be quieter in the lab, actually…" John waffled.

Mr. Hurt sighed in clear annoyance, but kept going upstairs. John stopped him at the next fourth landing, the one that led to the second's floor corridor, before the man crossed the landing door. John could now see Sherlock across the corridor, pretending to be talking on his mobile phone, pacing distractedly while the remaining students cleared the corridor. At the sight of John, Sherlock lowered his phone and slipped inside an empty classroom (the arts one, John recalled). _Good. Now I only have to wait for his signal._ He couldn't believe everything was working according to their plan, it was too good to be true.

"Oh, sorry, do you mind?" John exclaimed suddenly, taking out his own phone and feigning to be answering a phone call. "Hello? Yes, it's me… Excuse me, who is that?... Ah, yes, I was expecting your call." John checked again Sherlock's position. The boy turned to look at him from his hiding place and shook his head, so John extended his fake conversation. "Oh, I don't think I can make it next Tuesday, I'm a bit behind on the schedule already… Could we meet next week instead?... Oh, too bad. When, then?"

Mr. Hurt was starting to fidget impatiently, and put his hand on the door, clearly intending to wait for him in the corridor. John jumped to interpose his body between the man and the door, his mind streaming to find an excuse, any excuse, and finding none.

"Mr. Watson", Mr. Hurt said between gritted teeth. "I think I'll wait in the lab with my son, if you don't mind."

"Wait! The door is locked; hold on a moment while I finish this call and I'll go and open the lab". Mr. Hurt didn't seem very convinced. John begged again, cursing inwardly. "Please. This phone call is really important for me."

The man hesitated a moment, and then nodded. John sighed into the phone and carried on his pretended phone call. Suddenly, the device buzzed. He looked at it, startled, and saw a new whatsapp sent by Rick.

'_Can I join you now? Is my dad with you?_'

He hurried to answer, checking Sherlock at the other side of the door, still in his hiding place, and forgot completely that he was supposed to be having a phone conversation.

'_Yes, please. 2__nd__ floor landing, right stairs'_

"Excuse me, can you tell me what is going on here?" Mr. Hurt asked, angry. "You didn't even tell me why you wanted to talk about Rick, and as long as I know, he is getting good grades and never got into trouble. So if what you have to tell me is not important, perhaps we could set another meeting when you are more focused…"

"Dad!"

_Saved by the bell_, John sighed. Rick was climbing the stairs two at a time, smiling nervously at his father. Mr. Hurt seemed to relax at the sight of his son, and he moved to go downstairs again.

"No, dad, wait!" Rick exclaimed. "Has Mr. Watson shown you our experiment yet?"

"What? No, nothing of the sort."

"Oh, but you must! It's the main reason he wanted you to come to the school, you know?"

Mr. Hurt smiled, obviously pleased.

"Ah, so this was what your teacher was so mysterious about! And I was thinking you had gotten into trouble!"

"Who, me?" Rick laughed.

John patted Rick's back, joining in laughing. Then he turned to check again Sherlock's position and his heart jumped: the boy was gesturing him as a madman! Time was up!

He looked at Mr. Hurt, his eyes wide with alarm but suddenly mute. He hadn't pictured how he was going to do that! Fortunately, Rick was aware of the situation and grabbed his father's arm without hesitation, pulling him quickly through the landing's door.

"Come on, dad! No time to spare now!"

John ran along the corridor, trying to be as silent as possible, while Sherlock finally left his hideout and joined him in front of the lab door. They looked at each other and nodded, Rick and his father directly behind them, and then they pushed open the lab door with a loud 'thoud!'

John knew what was going to see, and he thought he was ready to take that in, but he was wrong. When he saw that huge lump of a body thrown over the smaller frame of Nell… the girl's body leaning over a lab desk, and that beast forcing her down with his big, strong, _rough_ hands… He felt like vomiting, right then, right there. But Sherlock had already jumped the other young man's back, and Simon, who was already startled by the intrusion, struggled a bit to throw Sherlock off to the ground. John was ready to join the fun when he saw a shine in the corner of his eye.

"Sherlock! He's got a knife!" he shouted.

_Too late, oh God, too late!_, he thought, because Sherlock suddenly caught his stomach with a grimace of pain, but he didn't let Simon go. John was already punching Simon on the jaw; the massive boy rolled over and fell down with Sherlock, releasing Nell, and kicked John from the ground, hard, making him stumble backwards. Sherlock elbowed the other boy's neck and sat up, trying to push himself on top of Simon.

Suddenly some strong hands took charge of the situation, producing a pair of handcuffs that fitted perfectly around Simon's wrists. The young man looked at them with incredulity painted on his face. John felt like laughing, but first helped Sherlock up and examined his injury: only superficial, fortunately. Although it would require some stitching.

Rick helped Nell to sit down. The girl seemed frightened but alright. Marcie appeared at the door, at last, and she quickly ran towards her friend, hugging her tightly, while Rick patted her back awkwardly.

"Well, I think I need some explanations… even when I can imagine more or less what's happening here", Mr. Hurt said, smiling at his son. "So this was your… _experiment_. Good on you, I'm very proud, Rick! And of you, too, of course, kids, but you let this go too far, Mr. Watson. The girl could have been hurt."

"I'm OK", Nell said with a thin voice.

"And the tall boy", he said looking at Sherlock. "I still don't know if you are brave or simply rash. You may be Sherlock, aren't you?"

"You know-it-all arsehole!" Simon howled. "You are going to pay for this! You are dead, you hear me? Dead!"

John's hand on Sherlock's waist tightened, protective. He pushed Sherlock further from the criminal and let go of him, aware of the cop's presence.

"OK, you lot", the man said. "I give you one hour to go home and eat something, and then I want you at the Met local headquarters to make your statements. I'm going to read his rights to this piece of crap here, and then phone for a car and an ambulance."

"I'm OK!" Nell repeated.

"Sure, but we want to take a pic of the current state of your neck, and I want them to take a look also at Sherlock's stab. So please, be quiet and patient for a while, will you? Meanwhile, I'm sure Rick can go in search of the Head Teacher…"

Rick smiled and ran off, clearly happy for being useful. Mr. Hurt took his phone out and made a call. The four of them (the two girls, Sherlock and John) gathered together once more, Nell still trembling as a leaf, Marcie checking now Sherlock's injury.

In the end, John's nerve got sick of waiting and took pics of Sherlock's and Nell wounds on his phone, proceeding then to clean and disinfect Sherlock's one. He didn't have stitching material there, but when he finished with the part he could do the ambulance was already there. He could feel the boy's warm gaze on him the whole time, and had to try hard to not return it, feeling his cheeks already hot and surely blushed. The Head Teacher was only a few feet from them, discussing about security and insurances with Mr. Hurt. John was glad nobody was paying them any attention, and even gladder of going out of the building, at last, although it was to jump an ambulance and stand by Sherlock's side while they stitched him. He was tough, that boy: he didn't whimper or grumble once.

"You again… Why does that not surprise me?" a voice rumbled behind them.

"Sergeant Gregson", John greeted. "I'm glad you have come".

_And had seen first hand the brilliance of my brand new boyfriend_, he thought. The man nodded, then frowned, and afterwards he opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and seemed lost. At last he sighed and just said:

"Let me tell you again, and I hope it's the last time I have to warn you: teenagers must focus on studying, partying and dating nice chicks. Next time, when you feel the thrill of crime-solving is invading your mind… go to the cinema and watch a detective film! Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystalline", John whispered.

The cop turned his menacing frown towards Sherlock, who frowned in turn. John elbowed him, and Sherlock sighed audibly and nodded. Sergeant Gregson seemed satisfied with that answer and let them go. Sherlock pouted.

"Can you believe it? We solve a case for him, and that's his 'thank you'!"

John smiled fondly. Sherlock looked adorable when disgruntled. He leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:

"Do you want to have lunch together and afterwards go to make our statements to the Yard?"

Sherlock's eyes shone with delight.

"Best idea I've heard in ages, Doc!"

The two of them walked away in search of John's car, trying not to touch each other and keep a good foot between them while walking. The Head Teacher, who was now talking with Sergeant Gregson, didn't miss a beat of their way together across the parking lot, though.


End file.
